


Allez Cuisine!

by omegaling



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chef AU, F/M, Iron Chef America AU, M/M, Rating May Change, Warnings May Change, You Need A Teacher, frienemies, implications of past abuse, seriously slow burn, so much food porn, this was supposed to be a oneshot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7898644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omegaling/pseuds/omegaling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rey arrived at NYU, she had a plan: get her BA in engineering, open her own garage, become her own boss.  Little did she know that a cooking mishap in her new apartment would soon awaken an unexpected passion: to cook exceptional food at a gourmet restaurant in Greenwich Village.</p><p>Two years later, a scandal breaks in the culinary world that puts Rey, her boss and executive chef Poe Dameron, and best friend and fellow cook Finn on the front lines on <i>Iron Chef America</i>, pitted against the new symbol of modern gourmet cuisine and undefeated Iron Chef, Kylo Ren.</p><p> <i>Chefs, to battle!</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Epigramme

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those ideas that came to me out of the blue and would not shut up until I indulged it for at least a few chapters (it was originally supposed to be a one-shot, but wouldn't you know, it didn't stay like that for long.) It's utterly ridiculous and I tried to talk myself out of it a few times, but I have this history of the more I try to convince myself not the do something, the more likely I am to do it. So that's why this little gem exists.
> 
> We're also reading the Iron Chef battle as if TV magic has already happened. I know that the episodes aren't actually filmed as we see them when we watch them, but I don't know the exact process of how they're made, and this way is more fun. The battle is also written as _Iron Chef America_ was filmed a few years ago, when it was more focused on the prep and cooking rather than some of the more recent gimmicks (no Culinary Curveball in this, folks, sorry).

It was one of the highest-rated episodes of _Iron Chef America_ ever aired, but not for the reason its producers intended it to be.

  
When the rumors that Poe Dameron had at last agreed to be a challenger on _ICA_ , no one really thought much of it. Truth be told, it was all pretty old hat by now. The producers had been trying to get him on for ages, but each time he would politely but firmly decline. So on the day he finally walked into Kitchen Stadium, the entire studio was thrown into a proverbial shitstorm.

  
Alton Brown started penning Poe’s introduction immediately.

  
_“When it comes to the pantheon of culinary celebrities, Poe Dameron made a swift and tumultuous ascent to the top in only a handful of years. Born in Guatemala, Poe made it his life’s mission to preserve the traditional flavors of his homeland while adding his own flare for modern technique. After working in a string of highly-rated restaurants in Guatemala City, he traced his culinary roots back to Spain, where he was taken under the wing of some of the most prominent Spanish chefs, including the legendary Ferran Adrià and José Andrés. He then moved to New York to open his first stateside restaurant, BB8, that picked up two Michelin stars within its first two years of opening.”_

  
Poe's list of shining credentials didn’t stop there. The whole culinary world seemed to unanimously agree that Poe Dameron was just genuinely the Nicest Guy Ever. When he wasn’t overseeing his restaurants he was usually found helping out at a local fundraiser, or at one of New York's college campuses or youth centers, teaching students and young adults the best ways to make decent meals for themselves while staying within their allotted budgets. Everyone who met him said was easy to talk to and had a way of making you feel like you mattered in the world. The fact that _People_ magazine voted him one of their top 50 sexiest men alive in 2012 didn’t hurt, either.

It was possibly the accumulation of these traits that made Kylo Ren hate him so much.

  
Rivalries between chefs - especially celebrity chefs - was by no means anything new. Whether it was between Gordon Ramsay and Jamie Oliver, Rocco DiSpirito and Jeffrey Chodorow, or Anthony Bourdain and...well, everyone...the culinary world would stop turning if someone wasn’t at someone else’s throat at all times. However, not even the most tenacious gossip rag could uncover when and where the rivalry between Kylo Ren and Poe Dameron started.

  
Although no one could deny his culinary genius, Kylo Ren was far from the most likeable chef in the industry, which was unanimously agreed upon from the highest-ranking gourmet chef down to the humblest food blogger; his dark demeanor and even darker temper made sure of that. The most anyone could figure was it was their polarizing personalities that made him and Poe clash so bad.  Speculations raged for years of what would actually happen if they were ever in the same kitchen together.

  
Now it looked like the world was about the find out, because there was no doubt on who Poe would be challenging.

* * *

The air in Kitchen Stadium crackled with barely-contained energy the day of the match, humming and heavy like an electrical storm ready to break. Pools were being created by the camera crew and the boom operators as they set up, betting on things like how long it would be before a knife was thrown at Dameron’s head, or which of Ren’s sous chefs would get a pot of boiling stock poured over them (Hux was unquestionably the most likely candidate; the other team would need a stepstool to reach Phasma). The bets were made as jokes at first, but soon real money started being exchanged.  Alton Brown dropped his cue cards on more than one occasion, and Kevin Brauch made more than one comment about wishing her had a set of body armor to help get through the day. Even the impeccable Chairman had tension lines framing his eyes and mouth and was no doubt wondering what state of his beloved Stadium would be in at the end of it all.

The judges were seated, the small row of stands filled and, with a prayer from all involved, the filming began.

  
Poe Dameron strode onto set in his signature orange-and-black chef’s jacket, extruding bravado and confidence without coming off as arrogant. If he found the cameras, theatrical lighting or smoke effects off-putting he did not show it. Poe stopped before the Chairman, returning the deep greeting bow.

“Chef Dameron. Welcome!” The Chairman said, shaking Poe’s hand firmly. “Thank you for at last joining us.”

  
“I’m glad we could finally make it,” Poe returned politely. His eyes glittered with humor, as though he was indulging in some private joke with himself.

  
The Chairman straightened and fixed Poe with a keen eye. “You refined your culinary skills Spain, the country that founded the sport of bullfighting. Now tell me: will you be hoisted onto the shoulders of victory, or will you be gored upon the horns of defeat?”

  
“Our _verdugos_ are sharpened and ready for battle.”

  
“Very good,” the Chairman nodded, pleased with his answer. “And now...let the battle begin!” With another dramatic gesture the Chairman and Chef Dameron walked to the front of the Kitchen Stadium set to where the altar, as well as where the Iron Chef and Poe’s rival, awaited them.

  
The altar of the secret ingredient sat hulking before them, white smoke pouring from beneath the lid that displayed the program’s signature crossed knives. Poe took his place on one side of the altar then cast a look at the Iron Chef standing opposite of him. The air crackled with tension; one could swear they saw sparks snapping between the two combatants. The cameraman were urged not to miss a single detail, to hell with how long it would take it edit it all down afterwards.

  
Standing at six-foot three, Kylo Ren looked like he’d be more suited swinging a broadsword on a battlefield rather than drizzling demi glaze over a perfectly seared wagyu-grade filet mignon. However, one never completely lost that initial impression of him, especially when he turned his gaze on them, his dark eyes as hard and sharp and shards of obsidian. Fans of _ICA_ loved pointing out how all of Chef Ren’s challengers visibly flinched when they made eye contact with him for the first time, and claimed that was a contributing factor to his flawless string of victories. When Poe smiled at him instead of flinching, everyone watching immediately knew that they were in for one hell of a ride.

  
The Chairman took his place behind the altar to complete the episode’s opening. “There is one more ingredient to this battle: the secret ingredient. The theme in which our chefs will prepare their succulent creations. Today’s theme is…” Another pause for dramatic effect, and the Chairman lifted his arms, the lid of the altar rising with them.

  
Arranged artfully on the altar was not just one type of food, but a mix of many, sweet and savory. A bowl of carved ice help a mountain of oysters, which next to them was a tower of emerald-green avocados. There were gigantic blocks of milk and dark chocolate and bowls of fragrant coffee, shelled pine nuts and pistachios and almonds, butter-yellow sea urchin roe, pomegranates and ruby-red strawberries and chili peppers that seemed to sizzle just looking at them. At first glance there seemed to be no connection between the ingredients until the Chairman proudly announced, “Aphrodisiacs!”

  
Poe laughed out loud. While Ren was infamously known for hating gimmick battles, this time he actually cocked an eyebrow as he took in the spread before him.

“Chefs, are you pleased with the ingredients selected to today’s battle?” the Chairman asked.

  
“I’m definitely surprised,” Poe remarked while Ren replied with a stoic, “I was hoping for more of a challenge.”

  
“We did get that on camera, right? Because I want it played back with the verdict is read,” Poe said to the Chairman. Kylo visibly bristled, but was not able to get a word in before the Chairman swiftly intervened.

  
“ _Chefs_ ,” he said with a little more force than usual, bringing both of their attentions back to him. “Your task today is to create five... _sensual_ dishes using the ingredients from today’s special theme. You have one hour to prepare your… _toe curling_ meals. Is that understood?”

  
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Ren said stiffly.

  
“It’s about to get hot in here,” Poe grinned, rubbing his hands together. Ren rolled his eyes.

  
“Very good. And chefs,” the Chairman continued, “I don’t think that I need to remind you to keep today’s battle... _civil_.” In other words: _Don’t mess up my stadium_!

“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Ren and Poe said in unison, but the look that was exchanged between them immediately afterward said no promises were made.

  
The Chairman eyed them both skeptically, but said nothing more on the subject; he only looked at the cameras instead. “So now, America. With an open heart, and empty stomach, I say unto you in the words of my uncle…”

  
He looked dramatically at Poe, who rolled his shoulders.

  
Then the looked at Ren, who stood as stoic and unmoving as a statue.

  
“ _Allez cuisine_!’

  
The chefs fell on the altar like wolves on a deer. Poe immediately whisked away half the avocados and bowl of chilis as one of his sous chef scooped half the oysters into a bowl before shooting back to their station. Kylo was in a decidedly less hurry, picking only the choice ingredients from the stacks of food before walking back to his own side of Kitchen Stadium, as though he couldn’t be bothered with trivial things like a crushing time limit: his non-chalantness towards the battles at large was one of his many trademark attitudes that earned both admiration and scorn from all sides during his career as an Iron Chef. The cameras immediately zoomed in as Ren converged with his sous chefs, the booms hovering over six inches over their heads to catch every single word.

  
It only made sense that Kylo Ren’s sous chefs were just as intimidating as he was. Platinum-blonde Phasma was almost as tall as Ren was, and although Hux was the smallest of the trio, his fire-red hair, sharp features and permanent scowl made even the most finicky customer think twice about complaining about their soupe de poisson. It was universally known that none of them particularly liked each other - especially Ren and Hux - but considering they were the only sous chefs he hadn’t driven either of them out of his kitchen in a flurry of tears he was stuck with them.

  
“Start shucking these and cleaning some artichokes,” Ren said curtly to the ginger-haired man, passing him a large bowl of shellfish before turning to Phasma. “I need you to start on the linguine for the _uni_ carbonara. If Dameron thinks he can beat me at my own game he’s about to be sorely disappointed.”

  
“Careful Ren,” Hux warned, not bothering to lower his voice so the microphone’s wouldn’t catch it, “that your personal interests don’t interfere with today’s battle. You have a lot of money to put where your mouth is with this one.”

  
Ren snorted, laying a blood-red duck breast on his cutting board and started trimming it. “There’s no reason to worry about that. The Chairman practically handed us the victory on this one.”

  
And he was probably right, and everyone in Kitchen Stadium that night knew it. Within moments of the reveal of the episode’s theme Twitter was blowing up with accusations of how one-sided the battle was. Ren was classically trained in French cooking - as well as Italian, and Mediterranean, along with spending a significant amount of time learning Indian, Moroccan, Japanese, Chinese, and Vietnamese styles and techniques. But it was not his vast accumulated knowledge and his ability to use it that made him such a formidable Iron Chef. No, his advantage today came from his own personal cooking style that put him in a whole other class of chef. Reviewers across the board tended to use a very specific set of words when describing Kylo Ren’s food: _Dark. Seductive. Positively sinful_. Several food critics had (partially) joked that his restaurants warranted an “R” rating, while many Yelp reviews had to be censored or outright deleted because of how descriptive the writers got when detailing how his food affected them, both during dining and afterwards. To put Poe Dameron up against Kylo Ren’s culinary forte after trying to get him to complete for several seasons just seemed outright unfair.

  
Then again, no one had thought to bring one of Poe’s sous chef into the equation, because no one had been quite ready for Hurricane Rey to blow through Kitchen Stadium.


	2. One: Princess Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're taking a jump back in time before continuing with the battle. This takes place about two years before Poe and Ren face off in the ultimate gourmet challenge.
> 
> So the posting of this chapter is a momentous occasion for me: I never, and I mean never, update twice in a week. The last time I did it for an fan fiction was well over ten years ago. I’m not promising a regular schedule, but I will try to keep up this momentum for as long as I can.

**Chapter One: Princess Cake**

Until she met Finn, Rey spared very little thought when it came to food other than its purpose for basic sustenance.

While she never starved growing up in the foster system, her experience with with culinary world for the first eighteen years of her life was lackluster at best. When she was at the group homes, she could at least count on the meals to be consistent, though overall bland.  All of the meals at the home were communal, and so the food had to be prepared quickly and in large quantities: vats of watery scrambled eggs and greasy sausage, tubs of spaghetti in tomato sauce, bowls of green salad that was really nothing more than chopped lettuce with maybe a few strips of carrots and whose only real flavor came from the ranch dressing the kids drowned it in.  Rey never thought to complain, though, nor did she turn her nose up at what was put down in front of her.  It was better than what she would have if she was on the streets (nothing) and since she never knew what she’d be up against at her next foster home, she took what she got without so much as an eye roll.

Some of the foster home’s food was definitely better than others.  The wife of one family Rey stayed with was a decent cook for the most part, but she had a habit of only ever making enough food for two people, which became a problem when her and her husband took two, sometimes three kids from the system at once.  She was also notorious for substituting ingredients when she didn’t have enough of something a recipe required (sugar and artificial sweetener were basically the same thing, right?).  There were many nights when the husband snuck Rey and the other kids out of the house for burgers or to the local Chinese restaurant after the kitchen "closed" after dinner, which quickly made him one of her favorite people she ever stayed with while in the system.

Another family she stayed with was under the impression that children could survive solely on boxed cereal, PB&J sandwiches, and instant macaroni and cheese.  To this day, Rey could not look at a jar of Jiffy or a box of Kraft mac and cheese without wanting to gag.

The best home she ever stayed at was that of a kindly woman named Maz when she was eleven.  She wasn’t the most amazing cook in the world - her meats were always dry and under-flavored and the vegetables over cooked - but the effort and love was always there, and that alone made up for what her food lacked.  Rey didn’t have many fond memories from her years in the foster system, but she did cherish those nights sitting at Maz’s antique dining table, doing her homework while the sounds and smells of dinner wafted to her from the kitchen.  Rey had hoped that she would be allowed to stay with Maz until she aged out, in a home that was warm and comfortable with a woman who genuinely cared for her.

Fate had other plans for her, though, and those plans manifested in the form of an overexcited terrier who tripped Maz during a visit to her friend’s house.  Unable to take care of Rey while mending a broken hip, Rey had no choice but to go back to the group home.  The social workers made a half-hearted promise that Rey might be able to go back once Maz was at full health again, but Rey had learned by then to never get her hopes up.  She never saw the sweet lady again.

Unkar Plutt’s house was by far the worse.  The morbidly obese man had one very simple outlook when it came to food: if it couldn’t be cooked in a microwave or be handed to him through the window of his truck, it was too much effort.  It was the first time in years Rey often when to bed hungry, the cheap TV dinners and greasy deep-fried food often making her feel sick more often than not.

(The food was actually the least of her worries during that time, but that was a road she not allow let her thoughts wander down anymore.)

If Rey had one thing working in her favor, it was how close her eighteenth birthday coincided with the start of her first term at college.  Rey was out of Plutt’s house the moment the clock finished striking midnight the day of her birthday.  She stayed with an acquaintance who aged out of the system a year before she did for a week, then she was on a bus to New York City, putting as much space between her and her old life as fast as she could.

* * *

 

Her new life as a freshman at New York University had taken time to get used to.  For the first time in her life Rey felt like an individual, autonomous being, not just a stack of papers and records that got constantly shifted from one file cabinet to the other.  It was an overwhelming, wonderful experience.  She made her first real friend in her dorm roommate, a cute, energetic girl named Jessika Pava, and together they spent every moment that wasn’t dedicated to classes, homework, and part-time jobs exploring Greenwich Village and its surrounding neighborhoods.  The only thing they differed on was their opinions on food.  Jessika was a self-proclaimed “foodie” and was determined to east her way through what felt like every restaurant, cafe, and bistro the City had the offer.  Although Rey now had more culinary choices open to her than ever before, she chose to still eat conservatively, sticking to the campus cafeterias that accepted the dining plan that tied into her housing and tuition.  The bulk of her college might be paid for through loans and scholarships, but she still had to stretch her income from her job as much as she could.  Eating out at a different restaurant every night was just not realistic.

So the arrangement went for two years.  Rey had never been happier.  She loved her classes and her schedule, the small circle of friends she and Jessika accumulated within the residence hall, her corner of her dorm room that she arranged and decorated until it was her very first personal living space.  Most of all, she loved the consistency of it all.  This was the longest she was ever in one spot, and she didn’t want it to change.

But change did come, just like it always does.  They were nearing the end of their sophomore year when Rey breached the subject about moving out of the dorms and into an actual apartment now that she and Jessika were going to be upperclassmen.  Jessika hesitated, her eyes misting over when she told Rey that she was actually making plans to move in with her girlfriend sometime over the summer.  Rey assured her friend that she understood and implored her to not feel bad, but she could not quell the anxiety as she had not experienced in two years suddenly returning in full force, brought on by old fears and worries she harbored while she was living in the foster system.  What if her next living quarters were awful?  What if her new roommate was a terrible person just waiting to take advantage of her situation (Unkar Plutt’s blob-ish face threatened to surface in her mind, but she quickly stamped it down)?  It took a little time, but Rey was finally able to curb her anxiety just enough to start making new living arrangements for herself.

It only took a few days of scouring the campus papers and Craigslist before she found a promising-looking ad for a roommate.  The pictures on the website showed a small but comfortable-looking two bedroom apartment, just a few blocks away from her school and (barely) in her price range.  However, Rey remained skeptical; it all sounded way too good to be true.  Knowing her luck, the person who put up the ad would be the next Ted Bundy or something.

She met her potential new roommate at a local coffee shop for a quick “interview,” and when a handsome black man only a few years her senior sat down across from her she was certain there was a mistake.

“What’s wrong?” the man, Finn, asked after Rey sat in suspicious silence for a whole minute. “Do I have food in my teeth or something?”

“You just look way too normal,” Rey said bluntly.

Finn blinked.  “Excuse me?” he asked, though his tone was good-natured.

“I’m just trying to figure out what the catch is.  Gorgeous apartment, walking distance of NYU, affordable rent?  I just feel like I’m going to end up chopped up in your refrigerator or something.”

Finn tipped his head back and laughed, and Rey felt the tightness around her chest loosen.  “I’ll make you a deal.  You don’t set up a meth lab in my kitchen, and I won’t chop you up and put you in my fridge.  Sound good?”

And that was how Rey met her new roommate and best friend in the world.

* * *

 

On the first night Rey was fully settled into her new room in the apartment, she walked into the kitchen to see a beautiful little dome-shaped cake sitting on the counter.  It was covered in dark green fondant that so smooth and lush it looked like velvet, and topped with a sugar sunflower so beautifully wrought that it looked real.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked Finn, who gave a half-shrug.

“Nothing special.  Just thought it’d be nice to celebrate finding a thus-far sane roommate.  Also, the eggs were going out of code soon and I wanted to put them to good use.”

“You _made_ this?” Rey asked in amazement, bending down to look at the gorgeous cake.  Jesus, there was even clear little droplets on the sunflower petals, mimicking morning dew.  “It’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen!”

Finn blushed, the skin around his face darkening as he scratched the back of his neck.  “It’s no big thing.  Really.”

But is _was_ a big thing; at least to Rey, it was.  No one had ever made her a cake before, much less for a “just because” reason.  Sure, people got cake for her on her birthday, but they were always store bought sheet cakes that had too much frosting on them.  But this... _this_ was perfection.  The cake itself was moist and impossibly fluffy and dissolved in her mouth as soon as it passed her lips, and the tart sweetness of the raspberry jam filling was offset by a layer of decadent vanilla custard.  Rey’s eyes drifted closed when her mouth closed on that first bite, and she moaned around the fork in spite of herself.  It was the first time she ever remembered eating anything for the sole reason of enjoying it.  She struggled to find the right words to describe it.  Eventually she settled on “divine,” and even then it felt insufficient.

She didn’t understand why Finn was so hesitant and modest about his schooling and career.  The only reason she could figure was because their good ol’ hyper-masculine society sneered on men who baked cakes and pastries and made desserts for a living, but Rey thought it was wonderful.  As they made their way through the remaining princess cake and tall glasses of milk, Rey slowly flipped through his portfolio.  She saw his degree in baking and pastry arts from the Culinary Institute of America he attended just across the Hudson river, as well as his internship certifications, and his awards and ribbons from baking competitions and county fairs from all over the state.  One printed article from the Internet showed a picture of Finn wearing his CIA uniform standing next to a very handsome man in a black-and-orange chef jacket.  The headline proclaimed, “Brooklyn Native Hired by Poe Dameron as BB8’s New Pastry Chef.”  There were a few pictures of Finn’s desserts that looked more like works of art than food, as well as a shot of the inside of the restaurant that looked like it’d take Rey’s whole paycheck to eat at.  The last few pages held glowing letters from recommendation and cards from family and friends, congratulating him and wishing him luck in what was obviously a very coveted position.

Finn’s talents didn’t lie only in baked goods and French macaroons.  The students at the CIA spent a lot of free time practicing recipes and techniques on each other in between classes, so he picked up quite a bit more than just bakery training while there.  Because of their conflicting schedules he and Rey didn’t get to eat a lot of meals together - Finn usually was at the restaurant at noon to prep for that night’s rush, and often didn’t get back until two o’clock in the morning, so there were some days when Rey didn’t see him at all - but when they did Finn always made sure it was worth while.  Rey never ate so well in her whole life.  Even his grilled cheese sandwiches were a goddamn work of art (she’d never settled for sliced American cheese ever again thanks to him).  The best part was when he'd bring home leftover desserts from that night her her to try.  She swore she gained five pounds in those first few weeks of living with him, but she didn't care.

Despite his insisting that he liked cooking for her, it didn’t take long before Rey started to feel like a mooch.  He had to painstakingly prepare all those gorgeous desserts and pastries all day at his job; surely he would appreciate someone else doing the meal preparations at home for a change.

The only problem with that was Rey very quickly discovered she didn’t know how to cook.  Like, _at all_.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  She helped out in the kitchen at the group home and the houses of foster parents from time to time, but that only consisted of peeling vegetables or stirring something to make sure it didn’t burn.  She had no clue on how to actually make everything come together into an edible meal.  She tried something easy at first: egg salad sandwiches, since only a moron wouldn’t be able to hard-boil a few eggs.

As it turned out, she was one of those morons.

Once the water was boiling on the stove and the eggs were in the pot, Rey decided to spend the time waiting for them to finish by tinkering with the chainring on her bike, which had been sticking the past few days.  Everything would have been fine if Rey had thought to set a timer to check the boiling eggs after ten minutes.  Instead, she was reminded of them when several loud _bangs_ from the kitchen made her jump to her feet, scattering her tools in all directions.  At first she thought someone had broken into the apartment and opened fire until a terrible sulphurous smell hit her nose like a physical blow.  Eyes watering, she cautiously entered the kitchen.  Rey blanched at the sight waiting for her, her jaw falling open.  Chunks of overcooked egg were splattered on every surface, the pot smoking and sputtering on the stovetop.  Letting loose a string of violent curses, Rey grabbed the pot and chucked it into the sink, barely registering the stinking mess of pulverized egg and shells clinging to the sides, the water completely boiled out.  Up until that moment she had no idea that eggs had the potential to be time bombs, and she never quite trusted them again.

Rey only had about half of the kitchen clean when she heard the front door open, followed immediately by the sound of Finn gagging from the entry hall.  “Oh man,” she heard him exclaim from the hallway.  “What’s the smell?  It smells like someone took a massive…”  He rounded the corner to find Rey balanced precariously on a chair, trying to scrub egg off a cabinet door.

“It was an accident,” she quickly explained before he could ask her what happened.  “I tried to start dinner, but I lost track of time, and I didn’t expect you to be back so early, I swear I’ll get it all cleaned up…”

Finn silently looked at the damage she did to his kitchen and the pot in the sink, then nodded decisively.  “Right, then.  Looks like we’re going to need some heavy-duty cleaning material for this.  Be back in a jiffy.”  With that he left the kitchen, and Rey heard the front door shut a few seconds later.

She turned back to the cabinet, face burning and eyes stinging.   _Great: you blew it,_ Rey chastised herself.   _Someone who works at a prestigious restaurant isn’t going to want a roommate who habitually destroys their kitchen.  He’ll come back with the cleaning supplies, and once you're done, he’ll ask you to look for another place to live_.  If she was lucky, he wouldn’t ask her to replace the pot.  It looked expensive.

Finn returned fifteen minutes later, but sans the cleaning supplies.  Instead he balanced a six-pack of beer on top of a large pizza box.  Rey stared at him for a moment, not fully contemplating what was happening.  Finally, the only thing she could think to say was, “I don’t turn twenty-one until next year.”

“I wasn’t planning on telling if you weren’t,” Finn grinned.  There was not even the slightest trace of annoyance in his voice, and his warm brown eyes sparkled.  Rey’s momentary lapse of self-pity dissolved into relief, and soon she was laughing along with him.

A whole pizza and half a six-pack later, the kitchen sparkled like new, the pot had been salvaged, and Rey and Finn sat on the fire escape outside the living room windows as fans blew the remaining rotten-egg stench from the apartment.  Rey leaned back against the fire escape’s metal frame, stomach full of good pizza and head warm and fuzzy from the beer.  A warm breeze, not yet burdened with the mugginess of a typical New York summer, sighed across her upturned face, bringing the smell of tar from the freshly-patched street and the blooming yellowwood tree beneath them.  Someone a few doors down from them was listening to Aretha Franklin, and beyond that was the endless, eternal drone of New York traffic, punctuated by the occasional siren.  God, she loved this city.

“So you really want to learn how to cook?” Finn at last spoke after some time of contented silence.

Rey shrugged, raising one shoulder and letting it drop again.  “I’d definitely be a helpful skill to learn.  That way I can actually help out and not have to worry about burning the kitchen down whenever I’m in it.  Oh, and it would be nice to not be the one who has to do the dishes for a change.”

Finn laughed.  “I can’t blame you there.  I would offer to teach you myself, but I don’t know how good I would be at it.  I can tell you how to many any kind of cake and pastry under the sun, but I lack the knowledge of the basic.”

“But everything you make is always so good!” Rey protested.

“It is, but everything I make is easy.  It's all basic college-food fodder, just fancied up.  If you’re looking to do anything more than that, I’m not the guy who can help you.  Fortunately,” he added, smiling his radiant smile.  “I just happen the know the guy who can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The woman from the first house Rey lived in was totally my grandmother. The story of how she thought it was okay to replace a cup of sugar with one Sweet 'n Low packet is legend in my family.
> 
> I've never exploded eggs before, but reliable sources have told me it's just as horrible and traumatic of an experience as Rey goes through.
> 
> [Finn's Princess Cake](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/prinsesstrta_17336) (with some modifications)


	3. Chapter Two: Onions and Omelettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm going to put on fifty pounds by the time I'm done writing this thing.
> 
> I'm also sorry that I'm so terrible about responding to individual comments. Please believe me when I say I appreciate each and every one of them. Getting a notification for a new comment or a kudos just makes my entire day, especially for a story I didn't expect anyone to actually read. Thank you again! You're all lovely!

**Chapter Two: Onions and Omelettes**

When Finn told Rey he knew someone who could teach her the basics of cooking, she was under the impression that one of his friends from the CIA would come by their apartment on a free night, showing her the ins and outs while he and Finn shot the shit about their school days.  What she didn’t expect was to find herself standing in one of the kitchens of the campus’s Weinstein dining hall on a Saturday morning with twenty other students, most of whom were underclassmen, ready for their first cooking seminar.

At first, Rey wasn’t too thrilled.  She had to trade shifts with someone at work in order to attend, and since the only co-worker who was willing to swap hours had a late shift, it meant she would not be getting off until after nine, reducing her study time for the day to almost zero.  Summer session had just started and it was already getting intense, so every bit of time lost to work on its rigorous reading and homework schedule nipped at Rey like little steel teeth.  But, she also knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.  The seminar was full before Finn even suggested she go to it, and it was only because he knew the guy putting it on that he was able to get her in as a favor.  He even paid the admission fee for her (a little detail he didn’t divulge until much later, and had thus far rebuked any attempt of hers to pay him back).

As Rey tied her borrowed apron around her waist one of the side doors opened and a handsome man in his mid-thirties came literally bounding into the kitchen.  Rey recognized him immediately from the photograph in Finn’s portfolio.  The fact that the cooking seminar was being taught not only by Finn’s boss but one of the most prestigious up-and-coming chefs in New York was added to the top of her “Reasons Why I’m Not Looking Forward to This” list: All she could think of was how much of a fool she was going to make of herself in front of him.  But Poe started off by immediately shaking everyone’s hand, smiling brilliantly at each of them in turn as he made a point to learn each one of their names.  All of the students were cordial when meeting him, but some practically stuttered and tripped over themselves in excitement, obviously star-struck to be in his presence, but they all got the same modest treatment from him.  When he got to Rey, though, he practically beamed.

“You must be Finn’s friend!  I’m so glad you could make it!” he said with genuine enthusiasm.  No judgemental looks, no snide comments, and not a single mention of the egg incident.  Not only did Rey feel the tension leave her shoulders, she decided right then and there that she really liked Poe Dameron.

“Alright guys, how about a bit of an icebreaker?” Poe asked, clapping his hands together.  “What is the worst cooking experience you’ve had?”

There was a lot of shuffling feet and averted eyes at the question.  No one seemed particularly privy to divulge that information to a renowned chef.

“Come now, there’s no need to be ashamed!” Poe grinned.  “All right, I’ll start.  The very first time I used a pressure cooker, I ended up blowing the lid off it.  And it just didn’t pop off, oh no; took out a light fixture before going clean through the kitchen ceiling.  On top of that, this thing shot off with so much force the cooker actually cracked the countertop it was sitting on.  So, if you ever hear any of my sous chefs from Guatemala talking about me trying to weaponize kitchen appliances, you’ll know exactly what they’re talking about.”

By the end of his story the entire class was laughing, Rey included, and then the other stories began to fly.  It didn’t take long for Rey to no longer feel embarrassed about her own mishap as the others talked about pizzas melting in the oven, cupcakes that had the densities of rocks and the texture of sand, and chicken that was black on the outside but pink and oozing on the inside.  Someone even managed to set a pot of boiling pasta on fire.  Rey even became comfortable enough to tell of the egg incident, and felt even better when more than one person in the group groaned and lamented, “I’ve done that too!”

“And that’s all okay!” Poe’s voice rose above the growing din, calling all attention back to him.  “Because we all have to start somewhere, right?  Now, just so you know, you’re not going to leave this seminar as world-class chefs.  Also, you’re not going to be able to master everything you try, no matter how many times you practice it.  For example, I can’t make a souffle without it collapsing on me to save my life, and my pastry chef will never let me live it down.  What my goal is instead is to arm you with the basic knowledge of how to make easy, quick, and inexpensive meals for yourselves while you’re here at NYU.  Because believe it or not, it is possible for a college student to live on foods other than instant ramen.”

From there they broke off to individual stations that had been set up along three rows of stainless steel counters.  Each station was equipped with a cutting board, several knives of different sizes, a basket full of different types of ingredients, and a pad of paper and a pen for taking notes.  Pots and pans sat ready and waiting on the stoves, as well as on several hot plates to accommodate the number of students.  

Poe began with the most basic of basics, like proper knife technique and safety and the correct way to handle and cook different types of meat to make sure no one ended up in the hospital with food poisoning.  There was a lot of note-taking in that first hour, and Rey made sure to get down every word.  Poe never came across as condescending or talked down to anyone who asked him a question, no matter how beneath his skill it was, and for that Rey found herself liking him more and more, if that was even possible.

From there they moved on to some hands-on practice.  Poe showed them not only how to properly hard-boil eggs, but also how to poach them and make an easy and satisfying omelette.   They chopped onions, smashed garlic to easily remove the papery skins, and sliced and diced a whole array of vegetables, combining them to make aromatic bases for many savory dishes at could be added to meals for pennies on the dollar.  Soon the kitchen was full of the smells of sauteing vegetables and basic herbs like thyme and rosemary.  There was still a fair amount of burned food and broken yolks to be had, but Poe was a patient teacher, backing the student up to the moment their meal started to fall apart and setting them to rights.

Despite her earlier misgivings, Rey found that she was enjoying herself immensely.  Her knife work was clumsy and her chopped onions far from uniform, but they still turned an ideal shade of golden brown as they gently sizzled away in her skillet.  She had expected to be inherently bad at this, so it was hard to stamp down the growing satisfaction she felt, especially when the other students struggled to save their rapidly-blackening onions.

Rey prodded her onions with her spatula - they were still slightly too firm to be properly done - and as she took a quick glance around to see how the others were still faring she spotted a couple of untouched eggs and an unused pile of shredded cheddar cheese sitting next to her cutting board.  A spark of inspiration jolted in an untouched region of her brain.  With a quick check to make sure neither of her neighbors were planning on using the ingredients, Rey snatched up three of the eggs and deftly cracked them into a bowl, only having to fish out a single shell fragment that managed to slip in with them.  Alternating between whisking the eggs and attending her onions, Rey replayed Poe’s instructions on how to make an omelette in her head to the very last word.  Once the eggs were whisked to her satisfaction, she poured the thick, frothy yellow liquid over the onions.  As she waiting for the eggs to set as Poe had showed them, Rey bid her time by taking the small canisters of herbs lining the counter and sniffing them in turn.  Before that day herbs meant little to her - her only previous experience with them was when Maz used them in overabundance in her cooking.  But now, surrounded by the smells of sauteing onions and the memory of tasting her first unmarred omelette filled with gooey cheddar cheese, something inside her just felt to... _ click. _  Rey drew a pinch of dill from its jar and sprinkled it over the cooking omelette just before adding the cheese.

“Something smells awfully good over here,” Poe commented as he approached Rey’s station just as she slid her omelette out of the skillet and onto a waiting plate.  When he saw her final product he arched an eyebrow.  “Oh ho?  Trying some modifications already?”

Rey’s stomach did an uncomfortable little flip.  She thought her omelette looked okay: It was a perfect, even shade of buttery-yellow, flecked with bits of cooked onion and miniscule dill fronds, the cheddar cheese just barely oozing from the ends.  “It’s nothing fancy, just some onions and dill,” Rey explained.  “I don’t know how good it is, I probably ruined it.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Poe grinned, picking up two forks and handing her one.  They cut into the omelette on either end, and even though it did smell good, Rey still hesitated before putting it in her mouth.  As soon as it hit her tongue, though, she gasped; not because the taste was unpleasant, but because she did not know she was capable of making anything so... _ good _ .  Her first omelette had been edible to be sure, but the introduction of two other small ingredients made all the difference in the world.

Or...at least  _ she _ thought it was good.  Poe’s completely impassive expression made his opinion hard to gauge.  But then he seemed to remember himself and said, “Yeah, you really nailed it.  Good work.” Then he moved off to help the other students.  

Rey frowned, wondering what caused his sudden shift in attitude.  Was he not happy that she had taken it upon herself to do her own variation?  She supposed that made sense.  Her professors had never been particularly pleased when some know-it-all underclassman tried to show them up in their own subject, so she didn’t doubt that Poe would feel the same way when trying to teach a beginning cooking course.  That would go double as being one of New York’s newest hot-shot chefs.  A coal of guilt burned in her chest.  Hopefully Finn wouldn’t be too upset with her when he learned that she undermined his boss in the middle of his own class that he helped get her into as a favor.  She kept her head down for the rest of the time, doing nothing to deviate from his instructions or to otherwise call attention to herself.

When the course ended Rey took her time in cleaning up her station, making sure she was the last to leave so she could apologize to Poe in private.  Maybe he would still let her come to the next session.

“You’re sure you’ve never made an omelette before?”

Rey jumped in spite of herself; she had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she did not realize that Poe had come up to stand beside her. When she calmed down enough to look at him she saw that his eyes were warm, his expression holding not an ounce of annoyance or intent of reprimanding her.  She shook her head.  “I’m sure Finn told you about how I almost took out his kitchen with a couple of hard-boiled eggs, right?”

Poe laughed.  “Oh, yes.  He was giggling about it all the next day at work.  And don’t worry; it’s not the worst cooking disaster story I’ve heard, nor will it be the last.  I didn’t mean to come off as so off-putting earlier, but I didn’t want to make a scene in front of the other students.  It’s just that your omelette was…well, for lack of a better word... _ exquisite.” _

Rey blanched.  Of all the things she thought he would say, that was the last.  “You don’t have to be nice to me because I’m Finn’s roommate.  I’m sure it wasn’t that good.  Besides, I didn’t do anything special to it, just added the onions and herbs.”

“Rey,” Poe said, leveling her with a look that told her he was being nothing but honest.  “I’ve eaten breakfast and brunch at some of the highest-acclaimed restaurants in the City, and your omelette was on par with what I had there, in its taste and your technique.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d been making them for years.”

When Rey continued to gape wordlessly at him for another long minute, Poe laughed and clapped her on the shoulder.  “Jesus, kid, that’s a compliment.  I’m not accusing you of stealing recipes from any executive chefs or anything.  What I mean to say if that you have a natural-born talent for this, and I hope to see you at the next session.”

Since compliments were even more rare than a well-made meal while Rey was in the system, it took her yet another moment to realize that Poe’s words to sink in.  Then a smile bloomed across her face as her misgivings all melted away.  “Yes… Yes, of course!”

Rey left the Weinstein kitchen with a spring in her step, feeling the best she had since the day she met Finn.  Out of all the possible scenarios for how she imagined today to go, she had hardly expected  _ praise _ from Chef Poe Dameron.  The only positive thing to come out of her years of living under Unkar Plutt’s fat, oppressive thumb was her acquired knowledge of how to repair cars and household machines, and for a long time she believed that that was the only real skill she would ever have.  Learning that she was talented in something else, and potentially  _ really _ talented at that, made her feel pretty goddamn good about herself.

All her earlier lamentations about not getting any time to study today were, for once, completely forgotten.  On the contrary, what she wanted to do more than anything at that moment was go back to her apartment and practice her newfound talent.  Since it was Saturday, Finn would be at BB8 until well after midnight, but that meant she had plenty of time to find a couple of easy recipes and refine them so she could completely blow his mind when she made them for him.  Armed with her phone, an open webpage promising twenty fool-proof dinner recipes for two, and about three hours to kill before she had to be at work, Rey took off to the nearest grocery store at a run, startling several passersby who wondered where she could be off to in such a hurry on a lovely Saturday afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for no hide nor hair of Kylo yet, folks. We'll be getting back to the action soon enough, I promise. I'm guessing just one more chapter, two at the absolute most depending on how this all pans out. Right now this short chapter format has been working out and is easy to manage, so I'm going to keep this format up for the time being just see where this crazy story leads me.
> 
> Also, we all need someone like Poe in our lives.
> 
> [25 Basic Skills Every Chef Should Know](http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/howto/guide/25-skills-every-cook-should-know)
> 
> [How to Make a Perfect Omelette](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/perfect-omelet-recipe/how-to-make-an-omelet-like-alton-brown.html)
> 
> [Yes, it is apparently possible to set pasta on fire](http://www.lifebuzz.com/cooking-fails)
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://omegaling.tumblr.com/tagged/reylo-modern-au) page, in case you're interested in visiting


	4. Chapter Three: Ambitions and Tacos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now the largest suspension of disbelief I have a overcome for this fic is thinking that a student can actually help pay rent for a two-bedroom apartment near Greenwich Village. Good Lord.

**Chapter Three: Ambitions and Tacos**

When Rey returned to her apartment, she immediately put her newfound talent to use.  Within two hours the small kitchen was in complete disarray.  Eggshells filled the sink, dishes were stacked precariously on the stovetop, and grated cheese was strewn across the counter like wood shavings, but amidst the chaos lay four beautiful omelettes, each one filled with a different cheese and herb combination.  Some of the combinations worked better than others, and Rey knew that there was still a lot of room for improvement despite Poe’s earlier praise of her gourmet-quality omelette, but for the moment she basked in the knowledge that she was able to do something she never thought she was capable of before today.  

She also didn’t ever think she’d be the type of person who’d ever take pictures of their culinary achievements, but it turned out to be a small mercy when she took out her phone to do just that: as it turned out she had been so wrapped up with cooking that she completely lost track of time, and now had only twenty minutes to get to work.  Rey yelped loudly before proceeding to throw everything in the sink with a raucous clatter while simultaneously peeling off her shirt so she could change into her work clothes.

As she tried to jam her feet into her shoes, Rey scribbled a hasty note to Finn on a post-it that said, “ _Kitchen a wreck, will clean when I get home._ ”  Holding the note between her teeth, Rey grabbed her satchel and keys and was just about to run out the door when she remembered her omelettes sitting virtually untouched on the counter.  A pang of guilt coursed through her.  Even when her food situation was at its worse, Rey always did her best to not waste what was given to her, knowing how much worse off she could be.  She hated the thought of her creations going bad and being thrown in the trash, so she scooped up the paper plates the omelettes rested on, one in each hand.  Somehow she managed to open the door without spilling anything.  A familiar sour-sweet smell tickled her nose as soon as she stepped into the hall, and a few minutes later her omelettes were in the care of the three stoners who lived a few doors down from her and Finn before racing out of her building to work.  She vaguely wished that her first home-cooked meal wasn’t put to the use of fulfilling a couple of potheads’ munchie cravings, but there would be more omelettes in the future.

And that was only the beginning.

* * *

 

Going to college had always been Rey’s greatest ambition in life, and all four years of high school were dedicated to making that happen.  It had not been easy to accomplish.  Unkar Plutt made sure that all of Rey’s free time was utilized in “helping” him in his seedy repair shop; his bloated and chronically sweaty hands prevented him from working on the more delicate mechanisms in the cars and appliances sent to him, so her hands were often used in their place.  The only time she got to do her homework was when he was passed out in front of the blaring TV, and was usually not finished with it until two or three o’clock in the morning.  After school extra curricular activities were out of the question, but when she was a junior she was able to sign up for her school’s automotive elective.  For two years she let her teacher believe that she just had a knack for working on car’s mechanical innards and not due to being a product of child slave labor.  It still worked in her favor, as he vowed to help her get into any college she wanted to go to.  By the time she graduated from high school, Rey was in the top ten percent of her class, had several glowing letters of recommendation, and, best of all, an acceptance to NYU’s School of Engineering.

Her plan for the future had always been simple and foolproof: get her bachelor’s degree in auto mechanics, use said degree to get a job at a reputable garage, and after a few years of saving and building a clientele, she’d open a garage of her own.  To be her own boss was her ultimate goal in life.  There were times when holding onto the dream was the only thing that got her through the hard days, especially during those last few months with Plutt.  But for the first time in six years, Rey felt her ambition in achieving that goal start to waver, because the only thing she could think about since her class with Chef Poe Dameron was cooking and how to improve herself.

The realization was unsettling at first.  Rey had always been so focused on the endgame of owning her own garage that she always assumed that there wasn’t any room left for anything else.  Over the course of the next few days she managed to pinpoint what exactly was bothering her so much.  Yes, she was skilled when it came to working on cars and fixing appliances, but that’s all it was, and all it would ever be: a skill necessary for survival.  She never really harbored any passion for it.  When she first stepped into Poe’s class, she anticipated that cooking would only be a skill she’d pick up for no other reason than it’d be useful to have; now she was so eager for her next lesson it was like having a constant itch between her shoulder blades, and she knew of only one way to scratch it.

She kept it simple in the beginning, not venturing too far from the basics that Poe taught in the class.  She caramelized mushrooms and onions and added them to pasta, browned meat and sauteed vegetables for tacos, put together salads with an endless combinations of ingredients, and further worked on perfecting her egg techniques (if Finn got tired of all her egg-based experimentations, then he was an absolute saint by not saying anything).  She shied away from recipes that involved searing beef or frying or baking chicken, even after watching several YouTube videos on the subject.  She didn’t like the lack of face-to-face interaction and the ability to ask specific questions when she needed to.  Besides, meat was expensive, and she wasn’t really keen on the idea of throwing away any amount of it before she learned how to cook it properly.

That was exactly what Poe tackled in his second seminar.  When Rey and the other students entered the Weinstein kitchen a group of assistants were setting raw whole chickens on each station’s cutting board.  Platters of breasts and thighs were also set out on the counter, as well as an assortment of vegetables, a few dozen eggs, canisters of basic herbs, and all the other ingredients they’d be using that day.  Rey felt a thrill of anticipation at the sight of it all.

When Poe arrived, he shot Rey a wink and a flash of a smile before jumping into that day’s topics with the same energy and charisma as the last time.

They started off by learning the guaranteed techniques needed to perfectly oven-roast a whole chicken.  Each student was first shown how to clean and truss the birds.  Rey was surprised when Poe told them the only other thing they needed to do to get the chickens ready for roasting was add some raw onions, garlic, and a sprig each of thyme and rosemary to the body cavity, then rub the skin down with melted butter, salt and pepper.

“A lot of beginning cooks believe that the more herbs they add to a dish, especially any kind of protein, the better, because it adds more flavor, so they’ll create a crust of herbs on their birds using everything they have in their pantries,” Poe explained as Rey and the others chopped up carrots, potatoes, and turnips and added them to the roasting pans.  “Actually, you want to do the exact opposite.  Meat, especially chicken, has a lot of flavor on its own, and it’s the other ingredients you cook with it that will help coax it out.  For instance: your chickens will absorb the flavors from the vegetables in the pan and in the body cavity; and the same goes for the vegetables absorbing the flavors of the chicken as they cook.  It’s the perfect symbiotic relationship.”

As the chickens roasted away in the ovens the students turned their attention to the platters of breasts, fillets, and thighs.  Many of the dishes Poe walked them through had only a few ingredients each, making them easily manageable and yet satisfying as they stuffed, breaded, pan-fried and baked their way through the next hour.  By the time they were putting their final touches on their teriyaki chicken noodles their roasted chickens were ready to come out of the ovens.  Poe’s technique was, of course, perfect; while his other chicken recipes had various outcomes from student to student, all of the roasted birds cooked to a delicious golden-brown on the outside and white and juicy on the inside.

The last part of their session that day was learning how to prepare inexpensive cuts of beef for things like fajitas and stir fry.  Since they had some time left afterwards, Poe ended the day with a treat; a quick lesson on how to make authentic Guatemalan tacos.  Rey watched with rapt attention as Poe moved with expertise grace around his station, slicing plump green tomatillos and slender jalapeño peppers, browning beef, and combining it all together as though it was as natural as breathing to him.  Watching him bring  was like watching a dancer on stage, or a sculptor working at their pottery wheel.  What he did wasn’t just cooking: it was art.

When he was done, everyone was invited to have a taste.  Poe’s tacos were superb, but it was in the sauce made of tomatillos, garlic, jalapeño, cilantro and avocado where the true flavor lived.  The taste was complex without any of the separate ingredients overpowering each other, creating the perfect storm of flavors in Rey’s mouth.  Every ounce of praise she heard about Poe’s cooking was wholly deserved.

“Finn tells me you’ve taken over dinner duty at home,” Poe said after the rest of the students had departed.  “I’m sure he always tells you, but he has nothing but good things to say about your meals.  The rate you’re learning is really incredible.”

Rey gave a half-shrug, raising one shoulder and letting it drop again.  “It’s no big thing, really.  Just a lot of simple stuff.”

“Well, considering you were a completely blank slate when you first started, that in itself is impressive.  We all need to start somewhere, after all.  See you in two weeks?"

* * *

 

Further bolstered by Poe’s encouragement, Rey applied her newly acquired knowledge with renewed gusto.  Now that she didn’t have to worry so much about potentially wasting more expensive ingredients, her collection of recipes began to grow by leaps and bounds.  She not only practiced the meals Poe taught to them in his class, but also accumulated variations of meals she particularly liked from the university’s cafeterias and on the rare occasions when she and Finn went out to eat because neither of them had the time nor the energy to cook.  Rey started to pay attention to the different flavors and textures that played across her tongue every time she took a bite, making mental notations of what each dish was supposed to taste like when it was made properly.  At the beginning Rey followed all the directions to each recipe she attempted to the letter, but soon she started to build the confidence to start making small alterations to each of them, adjusting this or that just enough to make the flavors flow together a little smoother.  Her efforts certainly didn’t go unnoticed, either; Finn practically gushed his appraisal over each meal she cooked, and nearly every neighbor she met in the hall had something positive to say about the smells coming from her apartment.

When her next payday rolled around, Rey felt particularly adventurous and bought all the ingredients she needed to re-create Poe’s tacos.  She knew that it would be a little harder to pull off considering she only had her hand-written notes from class that she hastily wrote down as she observed him work, but she was sure she could make do with what she had.  The onions and the beef cooked beautifully on her first attempt, but there was a bit of trial-and-error where the green sauce was concerned.  Rey had to start over from scratch twice before she felt she finally got the combination of ingredients right.

“Something smells fabulous, as usual,” Finn said by way of a greeting as he stepped into the kitchen.  He looked slightly frazzled and worn out as he always did after a double shift on a Friday at BB8, but no matter how demanding the pre-show dinner rush was or what disasters befell the kitchen Rey had yet to see him lose that spark of good will and humor in his dark eyes.  “Oh?  Mexican tonight?”

“Close-ish,” Rey said, setting down a plate of warm corn tortillas on the counter.  “Guatemalan, actually, courtesy of your boss.”

“Ooh, he must be really impressed with you guys to show you how to make his famous tacos.  Well, this looks amazing.  Let’s tuck in!”

Rey loaded up her tortilla with fried potatoes, steak and onions, then topped it with the green sauce and a sprinkling of cheese.  Taking a bite, Rey was not disappointed with the results; it was astonishingly close to what Poe served them.

Finn, on the other hand, was staring at his taco as if some holy vision appeared on his tortilla.

“What?” Rey asked with a little more exacerbation than she intended.

“This is…” Finn cleared his throat.  “Chef Poe really gave you the recipe for this?”

“Well, kind of.  He showed us how to make them but he didn’t walk the whole class through step-by-step.  I just took down the notes as he explained what he was doing.”

“Just the one time?”

“Well, yeah.  It’s not like I’ve been taking private lessons with him.  Why?”

“Don’t get me wrong, yours are amazing!  It just caught me off guard because they taste exactly like Poe’s.”  Finn fixed Rey with the most serious expression she ever saw on him, cutting off any attempt to protest his claim before she could make it.  “You have real talent Rey.  I may not be the vet that Poe is, but I’ve been in the industry long enough to at least recognize that.  And by god, I’m going to do everything in my power to help you realize that, too.”

* * *

 

Poe's last lesson at the Weinstein kitchen was far more laid-back than the previous two.  They pan-roasted salmon and vegetables in a single baking dish for a quick, easy seafood dinner (“Don’t neglect those Omega-3’s, especially around midterms and finals roll around,” Poe had said), then explored the many ways to make delectable sides with potatoes, both Idaho and sweet.  To round out their seminar, Poe taught them what he considered the most important thing a college student should be able to make: homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Soon the whole kitchen smelled of warm, soft cookies, and the students sat around on chairs and countertops as they enjoyed the gooey fruits of their labor, exchanging phone numbers, talking about classes, or getting last-minute questions answered by Poe.  Rey, however, kept to the back, away from the rest of the jovial group.  She felt legitimately sad that the seminar was now officially over, not only because she enjoyed learning new skills to apply at home later, but because she genuinely liked Poe and would miss his company.

“I don’t know if you’d be interested,” Poe started to say when, once again, the other students left the kitchen and he and Rey was the only ones left, “but there’s a get-together happening at my restaurant tonight after-hours.  It’s just me, my staff, and then a few other local chefs getting together for drinks and to blow off some steam.  Finn will be there too of course. You’re more than welcome to join us.  Then again, if you have somewhere else you’d rather be on a Saturday night rather than hanging out with a bunch of crusty old chefs, I completely understand.”

“Are you kidding?” Rey said without thinking twice.  “What time does it start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my non-American readers: Junior in high school = third year/second to last year before graduation.
> 
>  
> 
> [Gordon Ramsay's roasted chicken with baby vegetables](https://stephaniemormina.com/2012/08/16/roast-chicken-with-baby-vegetables-by-gordon-ramsay/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Traditional Guatemalan tacos](http://www.food.com/recipe/guatemalan-tacos-307972)
> 
>  
> 
> [ Classic chocolate chip cookies ](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/174864/original-nestle-toll-house-chocolate-chip-cookies/)
> 
>  
> 
> Even though a lot of dishes Poe teaches his class how to make aren’t gone over in detail, I imagine them to be a lot like what you’d find on the [Tasty](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCJFp8uSYCjXOMnkUyb3CQ3Q) ouTube channel/Facebook page. They’re exactly the kind of food that’s good for a beginning chef: simple, quick, and cheap.


	5. Chapter Four: Caipirinha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Tapas_ : A wide variety of appetizers, or snacks, in Spanish cuisine. They may be cold (such as mixed olives and cheese) or hot (such as chopitos, which are battered, fried baby squid). In select bars in Spain, tapas have evolved into an entire, sophisticated cuisine. In Spain, patrons of tapas can order many different tapas and combine them to make a full meal. In some Central American countries, such snacks are known as _bocas_. In Mexico, similar dishes are called "botanas". The serving of tapas is designed to encourage conversation, because people are not so focused upon eating an entire meal that is set before them. Also, in some countries it is customary for diners to stand and move about while eating tapas.
> 
> Longer chapter than I thought, with some new (and not so new?) characters making an appearance.
> 
> PSA: Kids, don't drink under the legal age in your country. Adults, don't encourage underage drinking. When you do drink, always do so responsibly and always designate a driver.

**Chapter Four: Caipirinha**

The New York city night life was only just beginning to gear up as Rey walked down the now-familiar streets of Greenwich Village, following her phone’s GPS to Poe’s restaurant.  It was a gorgeous July night, and the atmosphere was already beginning to buzz with its usual Saturday night energy.  Rey had been living in New York for two years now, and the Village was still her favorite place to be, bar none.  Even though it would still be the better part of a year before she could even set foot in any of the Village’s innumerable bars and nightclubs, she still got a buzz just from being a proper wallflower, living vicariously through the people who had access to all the places she did not.   Neon signs painted the sidewalks with garish colors, making the dresses of a group of girls out on a bachelorette party glow like a flock of exotic tropical birds, their twittering laughter momentarily drowning out all other noise in the immediate area.  Brightly-lit windows of trendy storefronts put their wares on display to the world, showcasing custom clothing and purses from local designers, stacks of used books ideal for summer reading, and baskets of handmade soaps and bath bombs whose overpowering scents wafted into the streets every time the shop door was opened.  Somewhere in the outdoor seating area of a bar, a glass broke, followed by the cheering and whooping of a group of frat boys as though they had never seen anything more amazing in their lives. Long lines of taxis ambled by, horns constantly blaring as they maneuvered around other cars and wayward pedestrians.  Everything was so vibrant, so _alive_ , and Rey loved every minute of it.

BB8 was located near the corner of a busy intersection, its front patio enclosed by palm fronds and ferns and shadowed beneath a long red awning.  Since the restaurant closed at 11:00 and it was already 11:34 according to her phone, all of the tables and chairs for outside seating had already been put away, the square of concrete in front of the ground-to-roof windows swept clean.  Except for the faint orange glow beyond the dark glass, the restaurant looked deserted.  Rey felt a small pang of anxiety; she was certain that Poe told her to plan on being at the restaurant around 11:30.   She opened her messenger app and sent a quick “ _I’m here out in front_ ” to Finn before checking Google Maps again.  Sure enough the little blue arrow was pointing exactly at the address Poe gave her earlier that day.  Did she get the time wrong?  Or did they change the location without letting her know?  A dozen different “what if’s” flew threw Rey’s mind, each bringing with it more disappointment than the last.  She had really been looking forward to tonight, too…

Suddenly a dark shape moved behind the glass door.  She heard the deadbolt _clack_ open and the door was swung open wide to reveal a broadly grinning Poe on the other side.

“Hey, you made it!  Sorry that took so long, Finn’s fighting with the mixer again and couldn’t get to his phone right away.  Come in, come in!” he said, stepping aside and gesturing enthusiastically.

BB8 was the most beautiful restaurant Rey had ever seen.  Poe’s restaurant was divided into two rooms - the bar and lounge area, and then the main dining room - elegantly decorated in the reminiscence of colonial Spain; terra cotta tile floors, thick, dark wooden beams crossing the low ceiling, wrought-iron art hanging on the walls and separating the booths.  The light from the iron chandeliers and wall sconces glowed warmly off the cream-colored adobe walls in the dining room, and a fake fire flickered from the depths of a decorative fireplace made of flat brown stones in the far corner, giving the whole space a cozy, homely feeling.  The bar and lounge, on the other hand, was painted dark red and furnished with dark wood and shaded lamps, making the space feel much more intimate.  Rey could not deny that she was slightly startled to see a giant replica of Pablo Picasso’s _Guernica_ taking up the entire inner wall of the lounge, the abstract, pained faces a stark contrast to the otherwise inviting room.

(Rey later learned that Poe’s father’s family had fled from Spain during the Civil War, having not lived very far from Guernica when the bombing took place.  They did not have the resources to make it to the United States as they hoped, and ended up settling in Guatemala instead.  The rest, as they say, is history.  After that, she had a much deeper respect for Poe’s choice in decor.)

Only a few patrons continued to linger in the dining room, polishing off the rest of their drinks or picking at the remains of their desserts as they settled their bills.  A couple of busboys were clearing the last of the dishes and silverware from the empty tables, and in the lounge the bartender was wiping down the long scrubbed-wood countertop, meticulously rearranging the displayed bottles of liquor and house wines as went.  Except for the clatter of pot and pans and the occasional burst of laughter from the direction of the kitchen, the whole place had a very subdued feeling to it, which was not at all what she was expecting.

“Go ahead and have a seat in the lounge,” Poe said, untying the strings of his apron.  “Everyone’s just finishing cleaning up, and the other chefs should be here any time, so make yourself comfortable until then.”

“Is there anything I can help with?” Rey offered.  She never liked just sitting around doing nothing while other people did the work around her.

“Nah, we’re pretty much done.  Besides, I want to make sure you get a good first impression.  Besides, you’re not exactly on my payroll yet, right?” Poe said with a wink and a bright flash of a grin before heading back toward to the kitchen.

Rey sank down into the nearest chair, puzzled by Poe’s words.  “First impression?” “Yet?”  She tried not to let his ambiguity make her nervous, but her years in the foster system left her automatically leary of situations with unsure or questionable outcomes.  She reminded herself that Finn was in the back, and he would never let anything bad happen to her on his watch.  Also, Poe had yet to give her a reason to distrust him.  She wasn’t a helpless kid in the system anymore, and Finn and Poe were definitely good starts on her road to learning to start trusting people a little more.

It was still awkward, though, being the only person in the lounge other than the bartender, who was studiously pretending she didn’t exist.  To pass the time she pulled out her phone and flipped absentmindedly through her various apps, not really paying attention to any of them.

Finally, the last of the night’s diners bid the hostess a good night and stepped out of the restaurant.  As soon as the door was locked behind them, the bartender - a burly man with a head of thick, dark curly hair and a short-trimmed beard - looked straight at Rey with a smile and said, “What will you have, hon?”

Rey was so surprised by his sudden shift in demeanor that she almost dropped her phone.  “Oh, uh… I appreciate it, but I’m not twenty-one yet.”

The big man shrugged.  “No big thing.  You’re drinking among friends tonight.  Sorry for having to give you the cold shoulder there.  Gotta keep up appearances, you know?  If some people realize last call isn’t really last call you’ll never get them to leave.  I’m Snap, by the way.  Snap Wexley.”

“Rey Jakken,” she said as she jumped up from her chair to shake his hand.

“So we finally have a name to put to the face,” Snap said with a smile.  “The way Poe and Finn go on about you you’d think they found the reincarnation of Julia Child.  Now, how about that drink?”

“I’m still a little new to the whole drinking scene.  I’ll trust your recommendation.”

“One Snap caipirinha, coming up!” he declared happily, grabbing up a small glass from under the bar and flipping it from one hand to the other before setting it down on the countertop with a _thunk_.

As Snap muddled limes and sugar together in the bottom of the glass, Rey heard voices begin to flood into the lounge area from the kitchen, and a moment later the lounge was filled with the rest of Poe’s staff with Finn in the lead.  When he saw Rey a huge grin split his face and he swept her up in a huge hug.

“Whoa Finn, chill,” Rey laughed.  “You’re acting like we last saw each other weeks ago instead of just this morning.”

“I’m just glad you came!” Finn said jovially, keeping an arm thrown around her shoulder and steering her towards where the other chefs had already converged around the bar.   Snap slid her completed drink over to her and the rounds of introductions began.

Rey met them all: the sous chef; Poe’s line chefs who worked the grill, the saute station, and the fryer; his expediter; and his caller.  Like Finn, each one wore their title in the kitchen like a badge of honor, and they were all eager to describe their individual jobs to Rey.  The line chefs seemed especially keen on trying to convince her that their individual job was the most important of them all, and within moments several good-natured yet heavily expletive-laced arguments broke out among them until the sous chef told to them shut it and that they were all worthless.

Rey immediately decided that she liked all of them.

Within moments of everyone sitting down Snap’s highly-polished bar disappeared under a forest of bottles: rum, tequila, whiskey, and a hoard of Modelo and Bohemia beer.  Rey took her first sip of her caipirinha and was immediately in love with its sweet, tangy and incredibly refreshing taste despite the strength of its kick.  She finished it faster than she thought she was capable of, and Snap had a new one in front of her before she could blink.

Then they started to bring out the food.

Before her first cooking lesson, Finn had talked her ear off about Poe’s culinary background and achievements.  While traveling through Spain and Basque he fell in love with the _tapas_ culture, which would later become his biggest inspiration for BB8.  Nearly all the bars throughout the country severed its own specialty appetizer foods, and patrons were heartily encouraged to eat, drink, and converse late into the night as they traveled from place to place around town.  The idea of the _tapas_ crawl sounded absolutely amazing to Rey even before she discovered her love of cooking, but her limited culinary experience had her envisioning _tapas_ as buffalo wings, artichoke and spinach dip, and deep fried cheese among other favorite American finger foods.

That all changed the instant the first plates were set down on the bartop.

Rey had never seen a langoustine before, much less eaten one (she couldn’t decide if they looked like small lobsters or large shrimp) but they tasked devine wrapped in serrano ham.  There were small chorizo sausages cooked in reduced sherry; _albondagas_ , lamb meatballs in a spicy tomato sauce; a potato and egg omelette that put her own to shame, and _potatos bravas_ drizzled with tomato aioli.  Rey even tried the grilled octopus and white anchovy fillets that came from a sealed can without thinking twice.  It was the best meal she’d ever eaten, even though Poe’s chefs insisted that it was all only leftovers from the night.  It didn’t matter to Rey: good food was good food.

Not before long other chefs began to trickle in, representing all the best foods the Village had to offer: Japanese, French, Italian, seafood, New American.  Each one brought their own offering in liquid form, and soon tiny cups of sake and glasses of wine joined the circulation of drinks.   The chefs greeted each other with a chorus of shouts and much back-pounding half-hugs.  They were loud and boorish, these men and women, simultaneously complaining about the long, arduous dinner rush while bragging about the number of plates they churned out, congratulating and insulting each other in turn.  Rey felt like she was being allowed to observe a secret brotherhood meeting, something that outsiders were very rarely privy to.  She still could not figure out why Poe and Finn were so pleased that she agreed to come to the gathering.  She wasn’t a chef, and although she liked Poe, she didn’t know if she could yet consider him a friend the same way she did Finn.  Was there something specific he wanted her to see?

“It was awful,” Rey overheard Finn telling a chef from an Italian restaurant.  “Five incoming orders for my chocolate salted caramel tart, and the damn mixer goes out mid-rotation.  Again.  Two days after the repairman guaranteed that it was fixed for good this time.  And of course when Poe tries to call the guy it goes straight to voicemail.  We think we can get a replacement before we open tomorrow, but I don’t know what I’m going to do if we can’t.”

“Want me to look at it?” Rey offered.

Finn looked blankly at her for a moment, then blinked and shook his head as realization suddenly dawned on him.  “Oh...oh!  That’s right, you’re an engineer major!”

Rey laughed as she slid off her stool.  “Good of you to remember.”

“Well, with the way you’ve been spending all your free time in the kitchen can you blame me for forgetting?  You can wait until tomorrow, though.  I don’t want you to waste your night going back for your tools or anything.”

“Who says I need to go anywhere?” Rey asked, hefting her bag over her shoulder as she followed Finn back to BB8’s kitchen.

The kitchen was a wide, rectangular room composed of white tiles, florescent lighting and an army of stainless steel appliances and equipment.  It should have all felt cold and industrial, but Poe managed to make it look elegant instead.  Finn gave Rey an impromptu tour of everything, from the cleaning and washing station right inside the entry door to the pick-up counters at the exit, to the pantries and refrigerators next to the tables used to food prep, the walls above them covered with an array of knives, measuring cups and spoons, and more herbs and spices than Rey thought ever existed.  In the middle of the kitchen was a long island where all the meals came together, a massive chimera of ovens, ranges, fryers, griddles, and exhaust hoods.  The whole kitchen was already shut down and cleaned for the night, every stainless steel surface gleaming and the air smelling of the remnants of hundred of dinners mixed with the sharp tang of cleaning supplies.  It was not until Finn nudged her that Rey realized that she had come to a stop to stare and take everything in.  A few months ago, she would have only seen it all as machines that could potentially break down and what would need to be done to fix them.  Now she wanted to know the purpose and function of everything she laid eyes on, and her fingers practically itched with wanting to practice her growing cooking skills on each and every one of them.

The offending mixer had already been unplugged and removed from Finn’s station to one of the prep tables.  Rey set her bag on the floor and dug out her canvas tool roll that she carried with her at all times.  Finn laughed incredulously as she set it next to the mixer.

“You know, most women get by with just lipstick and tampons in their purses,” he teased as she unfurled the canvas, revealing a screwdriver with interchangeable heads, needle-nose pliers, wrenches of various sizes, wire cutters, and a flashlight.

“I do, I just keep them all in separate pockets.  Now let’s see what the problem is.”

Kitchen Aide mixers were among some of the most common appliances that passed through Unkar Plutt’s shop, and although Finn’s was a larger industrial version Rey was certain she could pinpoint the problem in no time.  Within moments she had the main panel off and was tinkering with the mixer’s innards, checking the motor, wires, and all attached components as Finn yammered happily away next to her.  Snap came in once to refill their drinks, and beyond the swinging doors leading back to the main restaurant they could hear the raucous laughter and conversations between the other chefs.  Someone broke into a very loud, very off-key Irish drinking song, with more and more people joining in with every verse.

“There you two are,” Poe said as he strode into the kitchen sometime later.  “I was beginning to think that one of those knuckleheads scared Rey off.”

“Nope!  We’re just about done here,” Rey said as she and Finn set the mixer to rights.  She flipped the power switch and the mixing shaft began to rotate smoothly and sans the annoying clicking noise it had been making before.  Finn whooped and Poe gave a low whistle.

“Hot damn.  Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I can’t sew a button on to save my life,” Rey said as she packed her tools back up.

“Oh darn, looks like I’m going to have to find myself another tailor,” Poe said with an exaggerated sigh, and they all laughed.  “So, are you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Rey replied.  “Your restaurant is beautiful, the food is incredible and everyone here just seems to be really cool.”

“Great, I’m glad to hear it!” Poe beamed.  When he spoke again his tone changed; it was still light, but more serious than before.  “Actually, Rey, there is a specific reason why I invited you tonight.  You met Miguel earlier, right?  Well, right now he’s planning on moving back to the west coast in a few months, and once that happens I’ll be out a prep cook.  Now I have a whole drawer of resumes that I can go through and start lining up interviews for a replacement any time, but I wanted to first see if you’d be interested in stopping by in the mornings and early afternoons as your schedule allows so he can show you the ropes of what it means to work in a profession kitchen.  Keep in mind, it’s nothing like casual cooking at home: it’s a damn hard job.  I have two Michelin stars I need to protect, so I need all my staff to be up to par all the time.  The job is hot, it’s loud, it’s stressful, and we have to work at a constant break-neck pace.  During a solid dinner rush the caller will come bursting through that door rambling off twenty dinner orders, each one with a special request, and the ingredients you need for the first plate had better be on your cutting board well before he’s done with the last.”

It took Rey about a solid minute for her to process what Poe was talking about, and when it finally all came together a huge smile spread across her face.  “You’re offering me a job,” she stated simply.

 “Kind of,” Poe said.  “I’m offer your the opportunity to see if you’re cut out for the job.  I’ve seen a lot of guys waltz into kitchens thinking they’re hot shit only to completely burn out in the first month.  You’ve already proven that you’re a fast learner, and if you manage to get up to the speed I need you to be at by the time Miguel’s ready to leave, the position is yours.”

“I…” Rey started, having swallow before trying again.  “I don’t know what to say…”

“The appropriate response would be ‘yes, of course, thank you very much!’” Finn said in a loud whisper.

Rey snorted a laugh and was just about to answer the same way when the atmosphere in the kitchen suddenly shifted so dramatically it was as though all the air had been sucked from the room.  Rey pinpointed the source of the disturbance immediately; or specifically, the decisive lack of one.  

The main dining area had fallen completely silent.

Poe’s handsome face creased with a troubled frown.  “You two stay here.  I’m going to figure out what’s going on.”  

As soon as he was out of the kitchen Finn and Rey were on their feet and following in his wake, crowding at the port window of the swinging door to hopefully catch a glimpse of whatever drama was unfolding beyond.

He stood like an obelisk in the middle of the lounge: towering, unmovable, and casting a long, dark shadow over the previous jovial gathering.  No one laughed, no one spoke or smiled as every gaze fixated on the newcomer.  Rey was reminded of those National Geographic documentaries that showed groups of animals and how their entire behavior changed as soon as they sensed a predator enter the area.  This predator in general was a giant, towering over even the tallest chef by several inches, and with the shoulder and chest width to match.  Rey’s first impression of his facial features was that they should never work: his nose was too long, his lips too full, his ears too big beneath his long black hair.  But the longer she studied him, the more she realized that not only did his odd features work on his particular facial structure, but she liked what she saw.  Like, really liked what she saw, more so than any guy she’d seen in a while.

Beside her, Finn cursed.  

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?” he hissed.

“Who is _he_ exactly?” Rey asked, unable to tear her gaze away from the living shadow darkening the lounge.

“Kylo Ren.  The culinary world’s very own Machiavellian Prince,” Finn explained in a low voice.  “Have you heard of Giacovanni Snoke?”

“No,” Rey said, although there was something about the name that immediately made her feel uneasy.

“Well, if you make the cut in this industry you will.  He’s the godfather of what’s hot and what’s not in entertainment in all of New York.  I don’t know the full extension of his reach, but it’s safe to assume that every prestigious nightclub in the city, every talent agency, recording station and music hall is somehow deeply influenced if not outright owned by him. When the culinary scene and foodie culture really started to really take off he had to get his sleazy claws into that as well.  Kylo Ren’s been his restaurant poster boy for maybe seven years now, his hand-picked prodigy as a new breed of celebrity chef.  I’ve heard people call him the Armani or the Andy Warhol of the food world, or some crap like that.  His restaurant’s right in the heart of Fifth Avenue and he’s basically Snoke’s right-hand man.”

“So why is this Kylo Ren here?”

“As I’m sure you can imagine, Snoke’s not too fond of people who overstep his influence.  It’s kind of this unwritten rule that a restaurant in New York’s not truly sanctioned until it’s been reviewed by a major food critic.  Well, Poe’s first big review came from Leia Organa, the city’s queen of food and restaurant columns.  It was her review that ultimately got him his Stars.  She’s still one of the only people whose influence Snoke can’t cancel out, but that doesn’t stop him from reminding those under her wing that he’s still watching, so he’ll send out his thugs as a sort of calling card.  Let’s just hope no one’s drunk enough to try anything stupid.  It’s Poe’s reputation on the line if they do.”

Poe seemed determined to keep something like that from happening.  His whole body language as he marched up to Ren said that he was not about to be bullied or intimidated, even with the other chef looming over him by at least half a foot.  Although the two men’s faces remained neutral as they spoke to one another, Rey could almost see the air sparking with tension between the two of them.    All of the other chefs kept their distance, but she could tell just by looking at their faces that they were ready to jump to Poe’s defence against this intruder in a moment’s notice if they needed to.

At last the uncomfortable exchange was concluded, and Ren turned to leave the restaurant.  Rey released the breath she had been holding, not realizing she was even doing so until her lungs started to burn, but she could not take her eyes off the other chef’s retreating form. When he moved, it wasn’t with a predator’s grace as Rey had expected, but more as a force of nature, threatening to bowl over anyone and anything that didn’t get out of his way.  

Suddenly Ren turned his head and looked toward the kitchen doors, directly at the window through which she and Finn watched the whole exchange.  Then, inexplicably, his dark eyes seemed to lock with hers.  Rey gasped and flung herself away from the window, her heart jumping into her throat.  Did he see her?  She knew it must have entirely been a coincidence, but for a split second she could almost swear that he knew she was there.

Soon voices began to drift back in from the lounge, first tinny and subdued but quickly growing in strength and volume until it was as if nothing had happened.  The only way Rey knew differently was because of the way her pulse continued to thunder in her ears and the way her nerves seemed to vibrate under her skin.  Their eyes had met for only the most fleeting of instances, but she felt like she got jabbed with a cattle prod.

“Oh shit, Poe’s coming back,” Finn said, grabbing Rey’s wrist and pulling her back towards the prep station.  By the time Poe entered the kitchen again they had situated themselves back by the mixer, trying to look uninterested in what just transpired.  Poe grinned and shook his head when he saw them.

“You two are about as subtle as a brick to the face, you know that?” he said.

“What was all that about?” Finn asked.

“Same old, same old,” Poe said with a wave of his hand.  “His boss likes to try to intimidate those outside his reach into thinking that he calls the shots, and I send back the message that I don’t give two flying fucks what he think he thinks.”

“I’d still be careful, Poe,” Finn said with a frown.  “Snoke wouldn’t send Ren out here just for fun.  He’s watching you for some reason.”

“Well, if he has something to say he can say it himself, not through one of his cronies, no matter how many Stars he has.  Now, back to more important matters.  Where were we?”

They picked up right where they left off, discussing what the first of Rey’s tasks were to be and coordinating her class and already-established work schedule with Miguel’s hours.  Poe and Finn carried on as though nothing out of the ordinary took place.  Rey tried to follow suit, doing her best to put Kylo Ren out of her mind.

It turned out to be much more difficult than she anticipated.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a little longer than planned because more research and fact-checking went into it than anticipated. Lots of blogs read, lots of searches done on Yelp, lots of looking at pictures of incredible food. I like trying to be as accurate as I can about a place and a culture as I'm writing, but if I miss something crucial or make a mistake when representing a culture that I'm not familiar with, please let me know and I'll be happy to make the correction.
> 
> One of my bucket list items is to do a _tapas_ bar crawl in San Sebastian and Barcelona.
> 
>  
> 
> ** Chapter Recipes **
> 
> [Snap's caipirinha ](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/20210/caipirinha/)
> 
> [ _Chorizo con Vino de Jerez_](http://www.hotpaella.com/Recipes/Chorizo-con-Vino-de-Jerez.aspx)
> 
> [Tortilla Espanola](http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017469-tortilla-espanola)
> 
> [Spanish style meatballs with spicy tomato sauce](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/bobby-flay/patatas-bravas-home-fries-with-roasted-tomato-aioli.html#lightbox-recipe-image>Potatas%20Bravas</a></i>%0A%0A<a%20href=)
> 
> [Grilled octopus](http://www.thetapaslunchcompany.co.uk/cookbook/fish-seafood-dishes/octopus-recipes)
> 
> [White anchovies](https://www.tienda.com/products/boquerones-white-anchovies-peregrino-se-147.html?gclid=Cj0KEQjw1ee_BRD3hK6x993YzeoBEiQA5RH_BO7UbSiZjYyxCpKoJ1xRTwXyOjgzxK3TEYW71zmWNQ0aAtRW8P8HAQ&affid=cj) and other [Spanish canned seafood](http://www.travelchannel.com/shows/anthony-bourdain/video/spain-s-freshest-seafood)
> 
> [Finn's chocolate caramel tart](http://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/9360-chocolate-caramel-tart)
> 
> [Pablo Picasso's _Guernica_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guernica_\(Picasso\))
> 
> BB8 was largely inspired by the Spanish/ _tapas_ restaurant in SoHo [Boqueria](http://www.boquerianyc.com/menu_dinner.html)


	6. Chapter Five: Carrillada de Cerdo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was originally going to be a one-shot ended up being a prologue and then five chapters of backstory before we returned to the main event. The battle resumes next episode, folks, plus the promised interaction between Ren and Rey! Thank you for staying with me for so long until now! Honestly, I did _not_ ever intend this story to transform into what it's become.
> 
> Warnings for off-screen domestic violence.
> 
> I apologize for any inconsistencies, spelling grammar errors, or things that generally don't make any sense (more so than normal). It's 11:30 two days after daylight savings and I should be sleeping, but I just really wanted this up tonight.

**Chapter Five:** **_Carrillada de Cerdo_ **

If Rey could give her younger self one crucial piece of advice, it would be that not all change was bad.

It would be difficult to convince her past self of that.  During her time in the foster system, change was always closely accompanied by a sense of dread and anxiety.  It meant uncertain living conditions, schools with lessons plans that never coordinated with each other and often left her lagging behind in classes and struggling to catch up, and packs of students only too eager to tear the new kid limb from limb as soon as they set foot on campus.  She never viewed her leaving for college so much as a change as following a carefully laid plan that she never intended to deviate from.  But deviate she did, almost the instant she started working for Poe at BB8.

Miguel was a thorough teacher and Rey continued to prove to be a competent student.  She quickly learned that being a prep cook involved a lot more than chopping vegetables and seasoning cuts of meat.  She would have to be in charge of making sure all the preparations were done for opening the restaurant each day, including taking deliveries from Poe’s suppliers and making sure everything was in good quality and accounted for.  At the end of the she had to make sure all the stations were cleaned, orderly, and ready for the next day.  Poe required her, as he did his entire staff, to memorize the health and safety codes cover to cover, regardless that not all of them would apply directly to her.  She was in charge of preparing all the stocks and sauces, and was expected to constantly report to their Poe or his sous chef when supplies were getting low so they could be put on the next order.  She needed to learn each of Poe’s recipes by heart and how to correctly portion each ingredient to be ready at a moment’s notice when the line cooks needed them.  She needed to know where everything and everyone was at all times and was expected to make sure stations were cleaned almost as quickly as they were made messy.  Consistency was more than key, it was essential: every portion size, every dry ingredient measurement, every thickness of protien that came across her station had to be exactly the same or it could throw off the entire meal when it was time to bring it all together.

Five days a week, Rey made the journey to BB8 to start her opening ritual - taking stock of everything in the refrigerators, freezers, and pantries, checking off all the supplies coming in to make sure it matched their order, reviewing that night’s specials, then prepping all food items she could before the restaurant opened for the day - then trekked back the opposite direction to school for her classes that day.  After her last class finished, Rey returned to her apartment to put on her uniform - a white, double-breasted jacket trimmed with orange and black pants -  and returned to the restaurant to dive into the dinner rush.  On Saturday she spent nearly all day at the restaurant, arriving at ten and rarely being able to leave until well after one in the morning.  Sundays were typically her day off to catch up on any homework and studying that she couldn’t get done between classes during the week unless she was needed to come in to help cover a shift.

It was hard.  In fact, Rey was certain that she never worked harder in her life than when she was in Poe’s kitchen.  It was everything Poe warned her it would be.  The days were long, she was sometimes on her feet for fourteen hours at a time, and her starting pay wasn’t much more than what she was making at her old retail job.  The kitchen was always ten degrees hotter than any other part of the restaurant, the air was stuffy and constantly filled with the banging of pots and pans and the rest of the staff yelling orders and requests to one another, all the while remaining balanced on the precipice between perfection and disaster.  But Rey did more than endure the pressure: she _thrived_ off it.  By the time Miguel was ready to go back to California, she was more than ready to hold down her station on her own.  By the time her fall semester finals were over, Rey was an essential part of BB8’s team and was well on her way to becoming integrated into the Village’s culinary scene.  For the first time in her life, she felt like she was somewhere that accepted her, somewhere she _belonged._

Maybe that was why she felt so uninspired as she stared blankly at NYU’s spring semester course catalogue at the end of December.  She was supposed to be enrolling in her next set of classes that would wrap up her junior year, but subjects like machine design and fluid mechanics no longer did anything to spark her interest.

If she was going to be honest with herself, she was far more interested in the iberian pork cheeks that were currently marinating in a paste of garlic, thyme, honey, and parsley in their refrigerator.  Poe’s _carrillada de cerdo_ \- braised pork cheek with port wine and honey - was Rey’s favorite dish at BB8, and Poe had gifted her with a few pounds of the prized meat for Christmas (at roughly $60 a pound, it was arguably the most expensive present she ever received).  Once the cheeks were done marinating they would get a quick sear.  Onions, carrots, red peppers, and shallots would be sauteed in a dutch oven after that, then the cheeks and some port wine would be added and reduced until it made a rich, decadent sauce.  Just thinking about it made her mouth water.

But that was the answer to her dilemma, wasn't it?  It was something she’d known for months, but had been reluctant to admit it until now; her heart just wasn’t where it had beenwhen she started college.  Tinkering with a finicky engine no longer held the same appeal as slicing into a loin of ruby-red tuna did, or sauteing tiny, transparent _angulas_ with garlic and olive oil to make one of BB8’s most-ordered _tapas_ (which she was a pro at preparing, if she must say so herself, and always felt a swell of pride when she heard customers gushing about it from the dining areas).  Sure, she put in the same level of work and commitment into last semester’s course load as she did in the past, but it had felt more like a chore that she had to slog before she could get back to doing something she enjoyed.  The thought of having to pretend she was doing something that interested her for another three semesters, plus the inevitability to having to dedicate a huge amount of time and energy to a senior project, suddenly felt very bleak and daunting.

Her mind made up, Rey opened her e-mail server and wrote a message to her supervisor, stating she was taking a semester off for “personal reasons” and that she was currently planning on returning to the program the following fall semester.  She wasn’t necessarily losing anything; her scholarship allowed her to defer a semester any time before her senior year, and since she no longer lived in campus housing it only really covered her tuition and books.  

A day later, her supervisor wrote back saying that they understood, and looked forward to seeing her return to class.

A year and a half passed.  Rey never returned to NYU’s School of Engineering, nor did she ever regret it.

* * *

 

“Rey, would you be able to hang around for a little while after everyone else goes home?”

Rey looked up from where she was sharpening her beautiful eight-inch Wusthof chef’s knife, a collective gift for her twenty-first birthday from BB8’s staff (it was the last thing she clearly remembered before they all got roaring drunk).  “Of course.  What’s up?”

“It’s not a big deal.  Just something I don’t necessarily want to bring up in front of the others before I discuss it with you and Finn first.”

Rey nodded, deciding to keep any further questions or comments to herself.  Had Poe not mentioned Finn, Rey would have been worried.  Her boss always adhered to the belief that anything that happened in the kitchen, both the good and the bad, was the business of the whole kitchen staff.  The only time he ever spoke to anyone in private was when he needed to reprimand them for something or, in a few woeful cases, fire them.  Since it did not look like that was going to be either case for her, the only thing she could do was wait.

Rey’s stomach suddenly did an uncomfortable roll.  After so many months of not-so-subtle flirting with each other, Finn and Poe at last made it known to her that they were dating...though they really didn’t have a choice, considering she walked in on them in the living room when she got home early one night.  After the initial shock wore off, she was more than overjoyed for them.  Poe was now more than her boss; over the last two years he became one of her best friends, and the three of them were veritable peas in a pod.  But…

But what if what Poe needed to talk to her about was for something other than work?  What if...he and Finn needed to tell her that they wanted to move in together?  Of course she wouldn’t argue, and she knew they would all remain good friends and exceptional co-workers no matter what their living conditions were, but she wasn’t too keen on having anything change, especially now that everything in her life was pretty much perfect.  She was entitled to at least one selfish thought every now and then, right?  Rey snuck looks at Finn any chance she got during their closing routines.  She had learned to read him like a book over the last few years, but tonight his expression gave away nothing.  If there was something he and Poe needed to talk about to her, then it would have been evident in the way his eyes would dart away from hers, or from the sweat beaded on his upper lip, but tonight she could detect none of that.  She felt her anxiety abate a little, but not by much.

It was a Tuesday night, and therefore the entire restaurant was relatively slow.  The last customer came in a full forty minutes before the kitchen closed, giving everyone the rare luxury of cleaning up early so they could clock out at a reasonable hour.  Rey killed the rest of her time by meticulously mopping the kitchen floors and hoping her nervousness wasn’t too obvious.  The rest of the staff trickled out over the course of the next hour after the doors were locked until finally only Rey, Finn and Poe were left.  Poe motioned for them to join him at the bar. Rey and Finn slid onto the tall chairs as Poe deftly uncapped three Alhambra beers and passed them around.  Finn’s expression still betrayed nothing.  If nothing else, she got the sense that he was just as puzzled as she was over this private meeting.

Poe took a long draught of his beer and said without any preamble, “I agreed to be a challenger on _Iron Chef America_.”

Of all the things Poe could have told them, that was certainly the last thing Rey expected.  She had heard of the show and knew its basic premise, but her workaholic lifestyle didn’t allow much time for watching television shows.  That wasn't to say she wasn't completely ignorant of what it meant to be working for a celebrity chef in a top-rated restaurant.  There was always one kind of writer or another coming in to review BB8 for an article, a column, or a blog post.  Camera crews from both local and national networks doing a segment ton the best places to eat in the City were not uncommon either.  The writers Rey didn't mind, but she didn’t harbor a lot of love for the camera crews since it meant a lot of cords to step over and too-bright lights shining in her eyes while she was trying to get her work done.  She knew that stations like the Food Network, the Travel Channel and Destination America often approached Poe to proposition a hosting gig for a new show they were pitching, or to ask him to be a guest judge on a competition show like _Top Chef_ or _Chopped_.  So far, he declined every one.  “I belong behind the stove, not in front of a camera,” Rey once overheard him say to a journalist who approached him on the subject.

Finn evidently wasn’t expecting this type of announcement either.  He blinked, then saluted Poe with his beer.  “Congratulations, although we already know you’re going to flatten whoever you go up against.”

But Poe wasn’t done.  “I’m going to challenge Kylo Ren, and I want the two of you to be my sous chefs when I do it.”

This time, Finn’s reaction was much more violent; he did a spit-take with his beer, spraying foamy droplets across the bartop.  Rey thumped him on the back until the coughing fit subsided.

“Are you mad?” Finn croaked.  “Ren’s never lost an Iron Chef battle, Poe, never!  He will chew you up and spit you out and enjoy every moment of it!”

“Good thing I have the advantage in that he doesn’t _scare_ me like he does the other challengers.  So I think that levels the playing field a little bit, don’t you?”

“He doesn’t exactly strike me as having a personality for television,” Rey said as she mopped up the beer spittle with a towel.

“It’s already quite an assumption that he has a decent personality suitable for _anything_ ,” Finn grumbled.

“Ren’s at the forefront of modern cuisine, so of course old man Snoke wants to make sure that his presence and influence is well known in any and all entertainment and media circles he can get his expensive Italian shoes in.  The trouble is that because of said personality Finn already referenced, Snoke’s options of where to put Ren without suffering major collateral damage is limited.  He’s about as far from a family-friendly host as one can get - and I’m not talking about in the oddly charming sort of way Anthony Bourdain or Simon Cowell are - and he’s way too much of an asshole to be a judge or a coach on any competition show.   _Iron Chef America_ was the most logical choice because it lets him do what he does best - show off, then grind any competitors down in the dirt.  And the viewers love it because the chefs who think they have what it takes to take him on always, always choke on camera.  One challenging chef got so nervous he passed out in the middle of the battle.  Ren refused to let the clock be stopped.  He said that real chefs should be able to work through anything, and anyone who can’t take the pressure has no place in a kitchen.”

“Sounds like a real prince charming,” Rey said, wrinkling her nose.

“So why now?” Finn asked.  “They’ve been after you to be a challenger for the last four years and you always turned them down.  What’s so different than before?”

“Because I’ll have you two on my side,” Poe said with the utmost confidence.  “I’ve already been sent the options for what the theme ingredient may be.  Any one of them can have multiple dessert options, I’ll have you to completely blow the judges away with something fantastic.  And don’t give me a single word of doubt; you know it, Rey knows it, and I know that you’ll be phenomenal.  And I’m not just saying that because we’re sleeping together.”

Finn flushed, but his apprehension was immediately replaced with beaming pride.

“And Rey,” Poe continued, looking at her, “I need you there because you’re my most adaptable cook.  We only have a hour to create five dishes from scratch with no set menu, and I know I can trust you to adjust flavors and make judgement calls without having to run everything by me first.   _And_ ,” he put extra emphasis on the word, “I need you there because if there’s one thing I know about you other than you being an exceptional worker and a lightening-fast learner, it’s that you don’t take shit from anyone.  The line guys are all amazing cooks, but Kylo Ren scares the hell out of them, and he’ll take full advantage of that.  You can be damn sure he'll try to intimidate you too, but when he sees you won’t bend under his normal tricks it’ll throw him through a loop and give us an even larger edge over him.”

“But still... _why now_ ?” Finn asked again.  “I’m sorry, babe, but I’ve got to calling bullshit on this.  As flattered we are that you think we’re the aces up your sleeves you need to win, it still doesn’t make sense that you chose to wait _four years_  other than claiming you wanted to wait to have the perfect team before agreeing to go on.”

Poe huffed a sigh, running a hand through his thick hair.  “I’m not lying when I say I think the three of us can bring Ren down, but you’re right: that is only part of the reason why I want to go on now.  The other half is because I think Snoke is attacking Leia’s credibility.”

Finn looked unimpressed.  “And that’s new how?  I mean, I know you like Leia and I mean no disrespect towards her, but those two have been at each other’s throats for what, thirty years?”

“True, but this time he may have something that could actually hurt her.”  Poe reached under the bar and pulled out the latest issue of _Food and Wine_ magazine.  It was already open to a page in the middle of the issue, the headline across the top reading “Boiling Over: Leia Organa’s Newest Prodigy in Hot Water.”

“Remember that article she wrote last quarter about that new Mediterranean fusion place off Sunset Park?  Turns out the executive chef has managed to land himself in a heap of trouble.  Last month his girlfriend woke up from a two-week coma that was supposedly caused by a fall down a flight of stairs.  When she was coherent enough to talk, she accused him of actually throwing her down them because she was talking to their neighbor.  To make matters worse, he then tried to strangle her in her hospital bed before security was able to pull him off.”

Rey felt a surge of queasiness that rocked her insides like a ship on a stormy sea, but she forced herself to stamp the feeling down.  “But none of that is Leia’s fault.  Why would her name get dragged through the mud for what some lowlife does?”

“The problem is that Leia’s more than a food critic and a restaurant reviewer,” Poe explained.  “People have always held her in high esteem to be an excellent judge of character.  Editors-in-chief, network executives, talent agents… If they ever need an honest opinion on someone, she’s the first one they go to because she’s never been wrong before.”

“So you’re hoping to save her from her one bad apple?”

“It’s not the apple I’m worried about,” Poe said, tapping the article again.  “I did a little research on our friend who wrote this.  Turns out the only prior work he’s done for _Food and Wine_ are those little footnote articles you usually see sandwiched between two larger advertisements.  Then it turns out he resigned from _Food and Wine_ almost immediately after this issue went to the press to pick up a shiney new position at _First Order.”_

“Snoke’s magazine.  How convenient,” Finn said drily.

“So now Snoke’s got himself this eager new journalist whose claim to fame is dragging down one of the hottest new chefs who was once in Leia’s grace.  I’ll give you three guesses what Snoke will assign him to do from here on out.”

“Dig up dirt on all the other chefs Leia’s praised who are still in the business,” Rey said.

“Which includes you,” Finn concluded.

“It's all downhill from there.  Locals and tourists alike will see the negative stories being printed about these once highly regarded restaurants and stop going.  Sales drop, business becomes dangerously slow, the bills start to pile up.  And then here comes Mr. Snoke with a proposition to the execs to help put them back on the map, which I bet you anything comes accompanied with a bribe and reasonable sum of the restaurant’s returning income in his bank account.”

“Then that’s your plan,” Rey said.  “You beat down his star chef in front of the world, which will solidify your place in the industry, uphold Leia’s credibility and help protect the chefs she’s stood up for in the past.”

“That’s the jist of it,” Poe said, his mouth hidden behind his laced fingers.  “It might not even work.  It may end bad for us, even if we win.   _Really_ bad.  Snoke can’t stand to be humiliated at his own game, and Ren’s so fucking volatile he’s essentially a ticking time bomb.  But if this is Snoke’s master plan to bring down Leia and all her endorsed restaurants to heel, then I want to be in a position where the first move is ours.  It’s ridiculous, and maybe it won’t amount to a damn thing, but if we’re going to be hit him it needs to be where it hurts the most: his pride.  If nothing else, it will buy Leia some time to recover from this whole scandal and come back at him even harder.”

He sighed again, and he suddenly looked much older.  “I know I’m asking a lot of you guys.  I probably should have told you all this before asking you to be a part of it.  At this point, none of that may not even be true and I’m just being paranoid.  Of course I’d be eternally grateful if you’re in, but if you don’t want to be a part of this, I completely understand.”

“Are you kidding?” Finn said, jumping up from his chair.  “After everything you told us, of _course_ I’m going to help!  Snoke’s nothing but a bully, and he only keeps getting away with it because no one calls him out on it.  If we can make _some_ kind of difference in this crooked game he’s trying to play I say let’s go for it!”

“You’re damn right I’m going to help!” Rey said, thumping her beer bottle on the bartop.  “I just started here and I’m not letting that creep take this away from me or anyone else.  Let’s do this!”

Poe grinned from ear to ear, holding up his beer.  “I knew I could count on you.   _Allez cuisine!”_

 _“Allez cuisine_!” Finn and Rey echoed, clicking the necks of their beers with Poe’s and thus sealing their fates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot heavy chapter is plot heavy. Seriously, I did not have any of the scandal between Snoke and Leia planned out in the slightest until I got to writing that part. It just serves to remind me that the majority of stories unfold as they're being told and I shouldn't be so afraid to write when I'm not 100% sure what's going to happen next.
> 
> I've obviously been watching way too much _Law and Order: SVU_
> 
>  
> 
> [Braised Iberian Pork Cheek (carload de credo) with port wine and honey](http://spanishsabores.com/2012/06/12/recipe-carrillada-braised-iberian-pork-cheek-with-port-wine-and-honey/)
> 
>  
> 
> [_Angulas_ (Baby eels) a la Bilnaina](https://www.bascofinefoods.com/spanish-recipes/saute-baby-eels/)


	7. Chapter Six: Smoke and Tomatoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dedicating this story to Carrie Fisher. Rest in peace, General. You will forever missed and loved.
> 
> I hope everyone had a happy holidays and a good New Year. It seemed only appropriate to start off 2017 on the right foot by posting a new chapter.
> 
> The rating's been bumped up, but it's still a very mild "M" for mentioned...adult activities. I'm still undecided on how deeply into the realm of smut I want to take this.

**Chapter Six: Smoke and Tomatoes**

“Team Dameron, you have five minutes to get on set before we start rolling!”

Rey pounded on the door of the men’s bathroom again.  “Did you hear that, Finn?  We have to get out there, now!”

The lock on the door  _ clacked _ open and Finn finally emerged, his dark skin ashen and blotchy.  “I don’t know if I can even look at food right now, much less cook anything.” he grumbled, his voice raw from spending the better part of the last hour bowed over a toilet bowl.

“You can, and you will,” Rey said firmly as she passed him a few water crackers and a bottle of water so he could cleanse his palate.  “Poe’s counting on us.  Besides, you’re acting like we’re being shipped off to the beaches of Normandy or something. Time limit aside, we’re not doing anything different today than we do every single night.”

“You say that  _ now _ ,” Finn huffed, popping all three crackers in his mouth and then downing half the bottle in a single go.  “This is going to be both the shortest and longest hour of our lives.”

“We’ll be  _ fine _ , Finn,” Rey said with a tone of finality.  “Poe wouldn’t have accepted the challenge if he didn’t think we didn’t have a chance of winning.  We’re going to slap Kylo Ren so hard up the side of his arrogant head he’ll be walking backwards for a week.”

That was the biggest difference between them, Rey supposed.  Finn had the tendency to picture all the possible outcomes at once, often catastrophizing them and putting those at the forefront of his mind, whereas Rey focused on a single goal and set out to achieve it at any cost.  Besides, there was no going back at this point.  They were here, ready to defend Leia Organa’s reputation and to show that they weren’t about to let some crusty old man intimidate them, damn this wealth or his connections.  That was their goal; everything else was of non-consequence.  

Poe wasted no time in getting them prepared after he made the announcement.  The day after he told them they were going on the show, he wrote rough draft menus for each of the potential secret theme ingredients they could be given, then the three of them ruthlessly practiced each dish every night over the course of the next week leading up to the day of the competition.  Sometimes they stayed at BB8 until three or four in the morning before Poe was satisfied with their final products.

“When we’re out there, timing is everything.  Mere seconds can make all the difference in the world,” Poe said during one of their first practice sessions, making Rey make her  _ sofrito _ base all over again because she waited too long to apply it to the next step of her dish she was in charge of.  At times Rey thought he was being just as dramatic as Finn was being now, but she kept her comments to herself and did as she was told.

However…

She would be a fool to think that they didn’t have their work cut out for them.  During the little free time she had to spare, Rey had looked up everything she could find online about Kylo Ren to get an idea of what they would be up against.  

His restaurant, Vader, was rated one of the top ten in New York City and one of the top fifty in the world for the past seven years.  At first, she wasn’t impressed.  Compared to BB8’s warm, inviting interior, Ren’s choice of interior decoration was stark and harsh to the point of being unwelcoming, all black and chrome and metal chairs and starched tablecloths.  It was all incredibly pretentious, but Rey couldn’t summon the disdain she knew she should have felt toward him.  Not after seeing photographs of his food, in any case.

Rey didn’t want to admit it out loud, but Ren definitely deserved every iota of praise his food and culinary style earned him.  While his dining area was cold and devoid of emotion, his food was vibrantly, almost violently colorful by comparison.  She was also beginning to understand why people kept using a specific set of adjectives to describe it.   _ Sexy, provocative _ , and  _ erotic _ were just a few that particularly stood out in her mind, especially when she looked at the foods that inspired such lavish descriptions.  Juices seeped from cuts of beautifully marbled, perfectly seared wagyu rib eye steaks, the meat looking ready to melt under the touch of a fork.  Edges of freshly shucked oysters curled around plump pillows of glazed foie gras.  Ren’s salads reminded her of miniature gardens, and multi-colored pastas swam in thick, rich sauces.  Pink, butter-poached fish fillets lay atop beds of jewel-bright vegetables, and almost everything seemed to be garnished with glistening piles of caviar or a snow of shaved white truffles.  Ren’s desserts looked like they should be hanging in the National Gallery, not set out on a dining table, the sorbets and glazes on cakes and drizzles as bright as swatches of paint.  Rey couldn’t describe it, but there was definitely something tantalizing about his food and the way it was laid out on the plates, almost as if each dish promised more sordid affairs following their consumption.

Then, in what ended up being a major lapse of judgement, Rey searched for images of the man himself.

Kylo Ren looked exactly as he did from when she first saw him two years ago: the same intense gaze, the inky black hair that curled tantalizingly around his ears and at the nape of his neck, the wrong-but-oh-so-right proportions of his facial features.  She could still remember the way her heart lurched against her ribs when he turned those eyes on her, the way her body hummed for hours afterwards and could only be soothed by her fingers between her legs.  Afterwards she felt awash with shame that a man who was so clearly despised by her friends could invoke such a reaction from her.  Fortunately, she became so obsessed with her new line of work that she didn’t have a lot of time to spare thinking about him.

Unfortunately, looking at the pictures of him brought that deeply-buried memory back.  What was even worse was that the feelings it brought with them were even worse than before, because now she was envisioning those impossibly large, long-fingered hands wielding a chef’s knife to slice through plump, juicy tomatoes, laying strips of meat into a pan to be seared in melted butter, or fluffing emulsified foam into frothy perfection.  Then her treacherous mind started to wander into uncharted waters, leading her to wonder what else those hands were good at.  If they could turn food into fine art, then what could they do to someone lay stretched out on a bed beneath him, completely at their mercy…

The fantasies got so bad that Rey snapped the top of her laptop closed and immediately took a shower, trying to convince herself that it had nothing to do with the dampness in her underwear.  She was not a religious person, but she prayed all things holy that the feelings Ren invoked her would not interfere with her performance once they were out there.  If Poe lost because she was lusting after his rival she’d have to hang herself by her apron strings.  That is, if she didn’t outright die of embarassment first.

The floor manager ushered Rey and Finn into the studio and directed them to where they needed to stand and wait for the battle to commence.  Kitchen Stadium was like BB8’s kitchen on steroids, and she took that time before the filming started to reorient herself with its layout.  Rey’s station was situated next to Poe’s so she could assist him with the savory dishes while Finn focused on desserts in the back.  She visually mapped out where all the major kitchen equipments was in relation to where she would be working - the stove tops and ovens, the deep fryer, the location of every pot, pan, tool, and small appliance at their disposal - to alleviate any unnecessary scrambling and wasted time.  As soon as the floor manager left her and Finn along Rey slid her rolled tool canvas into a small cubby beneath her cutting board, where it would be both out of the way and easily accessible.  She wasn’t planning on using them, but even after dropping out of school two years ago Rey discovered that she wasn’t able to go anywhere without her tools in tow.  It felt too much like abandoning a group of old, loyal friends.  If nothing else, their presence would help keep her grounded if things started to get too heated.

“Well, well.  Finn Trooper.  What a surprise.”

Rey and Finn turned simultaneously toward the source of the accented voice.  A man and a woman who could only be Ren’s sous chefs were now standing on his side of the stadium.  For those first few second Rey’s attention was fully arrested by the woman, whose short, platinum-blonde hair, smokey eyes and towering height made Rey think of the Valkyrie warriors from Norse mythology.  The ginger-haired man standing beside her was the least intimidating member of the opposite team, but there was something about him that Rey immediately didn’t like.  While Kylo Ren reminded her of an apex predator, there was something about this man that made him seem much more sinister and dangerous, like a viper waiting in the grass for the perfect opportunity the strike.

“Hux,” Finn said in return, his voice as rigid as his posture had gone.

“I wondered what became of you after you abandoned your post at Finalizer.  And so soon after Snoke recommended you for a James Beard Foundation nomination?  Such ingratitude.  We were all certain you’d never set foot in a professional kitchen again,  Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised that someone like Dameron took you under his wing.”

Finn took a stomping step in the other man’s direction, but Rey put a hand on his chest to stop him.  The motion was not lost on Hux; his ice-cold eyes turned on Rey, cocking one ginger eyebrow in lazy interest.  “And you are…?”

“I’m Rey,” she said, holding his glare defiantly.

“And what are your credentials,  _ Rey _ ?” He said her name like he didn’t like the way it felt in his mouth.  “Schooling?  Previous employers and internships?  Awards and recognitions?”

“I’ve been with BB8 for the last two years, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“And before that?”

“I was an engineering major at NYU.”

Hux narrowed his eyes, and Rey felt her hackles rise in response.  “What’s your usual station?”

Finn placed a hand on Rey’s arm and hissed something about Hux goading her, but she lifted her chin up and said, “I’m Poe’s prep cook.”

The blonde woman’s eyebrows shot towards her hairline.  Hux openly sneered at them.  “Is that really the best Dameron could come up with?  A disgraced pastry chef and a girl who’s only a step up from a dish washer to help him?  What does his think he’s playing at?”

“He probably wants to prove that intimidation can only get you so far when you’re up against real talent,” Rey shot back, taking Finn firmly by the elbow and steering him back to their side.

“Asshole.  Who the hell does he think he is?” Rey hissed, pulling a honing steel from a wooden block set and running it across the edge of her knife.  She had honed her knife last night before she went to bed, and then again before they left for the studio that morning, but she was in desperate need to give her hands something to do before she rushed back to the other side of the kitchen and wrung that skinny creep’s neck.

“That would be Armitage Hux, owner and executive chef of Finalizer on Carnegie Hill,” Finn explained.  “He’s the new hot shit when it comes to molecular gastronomy in the U.S., right up there with Grant Achatz and Homaro Cantu.  He’s also the most pretentious bastard you’ll ever meet.  He actually requires diners to complete an  _ application _ before he’ll approve their reservation because he doesn’t want to waste his food on people who won’t fully appreciate it.  And yet his wait list is still eighteen months out.  I just don’t get it.”

“Jesus.  No wonder why you got out of there.”

Finn flinched.  “It doesn’t…bother you knowing that I worked for Snoke before Poe picked me up?”

“Not unless you’re really a double agent who’s been biding your time for a chance to sabotage our boss.”

That got a laugh out of him.  “Nah.  I was young and overeager when I got out of the CIA and agreed to Snoke’s terms before I knew what was getting into.  It only took me about a month before I regretted it.  Hux is right about one thing; had it not been for Poe, the only restaurants I could hope to work at again were places like Applebee’s and TGI Friday’s, so I kind of owe my continuing career to him.  Also the fact he’s my boyfriend makes double-crossing him a little awkward.”

“Just a smidge,” Rey agreed, replacing the honing knife in the block.  “And her?”

“That’s Phasma.  Don’t ask me if she has any other names.  If she does, I’ve never heard it, and I think people are too afraid to ask her outright.  To my knowledge she’s only ever been a sous for other chefs, but she runs a kitchen with military precision.  There was a rumor flying around a few years ago that broke a supplyer’s arm who tried to cheat her out on a fish delivery.  I don’t think anyone’s confirmed it, but I wouldn’t doubt it for a second.  I’ve seen her cleave a side of beef with a single chop once, so I’d stay out of her way just as much as Ren and Hux.”

“Duly noted,” Rey said grimly, wondering for the first time what exactly Poe had gotten them all into.

“Quiet on the set!” the floor manager barked.  The lights immediately dimmed, throwing everything except the center aisle into darkness.  Stage fog billowed across the floor and the camera crew and boom operators moved into position.  Bright spotlights swiveled toward the door at the back of the set where Poe would make his entrance.  Mark Dacascos - better knows as the infamous Chairman - had already taken his place at the end of the aisle, and Rey caught sight of Alton Brown and Kevin Brauch moving in the dim light at the far ends of Kitchen Stadium.  The director called out a few orders, and the filming of the episode began.

It all felt a bit ridiculous, if Rey was going to be perfectly honest.  Without the music, editing and other post-production TV magic she felt like she was part of a dress rehearsal for a school play.  Poe was cued to make his entrance, and after a brief exchange of clever words, the host and the chef strode to the front of the set where the Altar of the Secret Ingredient awaited them.

As did Kylo Ren.

Rey didn’t even seen him come onto the set, but there he was all the same, his black hair and chef’s jacket creating a void of darkness beside the altar.  Then the studio lights were thrown on again, revealing Ren in all his dark, imposing glory.  Fuck, he was massive.  Cooking skills aside, it was little wonder why other chefs - or anyone else - was so afraid of him.

Poe took his place opposite Ren in front of the show’s trademark Altar of the Secret Ingredient.  The whole studio seemed to become instantly saturated with tension, giving Rey the foreboding mental image of sharks being drawn to blood in the water.  The two chef exchanged brief glances, but Poe only smirked at Ren’s glower.  Ren’s full mouth suddenly seemed much less appealing to Rey, given that it did nothing but sit in a hard, straight line and occasionally sneer at other people.

The Chairman delivered another set of lines, then revealed the secret ingredient with a flourish.

_ Shit, _ Rey thought as her stomach dropped.  They went with the aphrodisiacs.

Technically, the variation of food they got to work with would make the battle easier since they had more choices of ingredients to work with rather than having to stretch out only one over five courses.  The meal that Poe planned for this particular battle was extremely solid and would showcase his style, his skill, and his mastery of techniques.  However, no amount of confidence on their part could overshadow the glaring fact that this was still  _ Ren’s _ specialty; the man made his whole career on creating food that made people moan and pant for more.  They were on his home field in more ways than one, and the odds of coming out of this on top were getting smaller all the time.  Next to her, Finn looked like he wanted to do nothing more than run back to the bathroom.  Rey took his hand and gave it a squeeze.  Come hell or high water, they were all in this together.

A smattering of banter was exchanged between Poe and Ren, swift and biting, aimed to agitate the other before the Chairman cut them off.  Rey felt a small swell of pride for Poe for not quailing under Ren’s withering gaze; her boss still looked as cool and collected as she’d even known him to be.

Finally, the Chairman looked directly into the camera lenses to deliver his infamous lines: “So now, America.  With an open heart, and an empty stomach, I say unto you in the words of my uncle:  _ Allez cuisine!” _

They were off like runners at the crack of a starting pistol.  Rey sprinted to the altar to take the avocados and chilis Poe handed off to her before going back for more of the secret ingredients.  Finn gathered vegetables, dairy, and other basic ingredients from the pantry and refrigerators, turning on stoves and burners as he went.

“Talk to me, Rey.  What’s the plan?” Poe called out as he arranged the first of his ingredients at his station.

“Prep the smoker for the tomatoes for the cocktail sauce,” Rey responded even as she loaded the smoking pan with a combination of oak chips and dried seaweed.  “Peel and boil the potatoes for the third course.  Don’t start on the hollandaise until the final fifteen.”

“Excellent.  How about you, Finn?”

“I’m on the flan and the cake.  After those are going I’ll start on the ice cream.”

“Beautiful, beautiful!” Poe said jovially.  “Alright, guys, let’s do this thing!  Give it everything you got!”

Rey lay out some gorgeous gold and red heirloom tomatoes on her cutting board and began to slice away at them as she waited for her wood chips to start smoking.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ren converging with his own sous chefs on his side of the stadium.  Ren was moving aggravatingly slow compared to their hustle, he casualness mocking the seriousness in which Poe took the challenge.   _ Good _ , she thought.  The more reasons she had to not be attracted to him, the better.

Hux said one more thing to Ren before breaking away to his station.  Rey had a good suspicion of what it was, because an instant later Ren’s head whipped around to look directly at her.

Rey averted her eyes quickly, hoping he didn’t see the way her skin flushed around her neck.  So what if she only had two years experience?  The rules didn’t stipulate that a sous chef needed so many years working in a professional kitchen to participate in the battle.  Poe knew she was good enough, and evidently that was good enough for the producers.  Besides, growing up in the foster system had pre-conditioned her to know how to deal with people’s low expectations and judgemental glares.  Just because Ren and his sous were hot-shot, world-class chefs wasn’t going to change that.

_ Better watch out, Kitchen Prince,  _ Rey thought fiercely as she placed her tomatoes over the smouldering wood chips.   _ We’re going to knock that crown right off your head and watch it melt in the flames. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to cut off the chapter right as we're getting to the good part. I originally wanted to fit the entire battle in one chapter, but towards the end things stopped flowing and the only way to fix it was to take a different direction. So next chapter, we're not only getting the long-awaited battle, but it will be seen from Ren's POV.
> 
> That said, I have NO IDEA how long it will take to write it.
> 
> I really don't know if the _Iron Chef America_ producers require all chefs to work a minimum number of years in order to complete, but for the sake of the story I'm going to say no.
> 
>  _Sofrito_ is a sauce commonly used as a base in Spanish, Latin American, Italian, and Portuguese cooking. It consists mostly of olive oil, tomatoes, paprika, onion and garlic.
> 
> No recipes for this chapter, but you can bet the next one will be loaded with them. In the meantime, here's a little reading material on [Grant Achatz](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grant_Achatz) and [Homaro Cantu]() (a former challenger on _Iron Chef America_ who sadly passed away by suicide in 2015).


	8. Chapter Seven: Lamb and Cinnamon Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is perhaps one of the hardest things I've ever written, no joke.

**Chapter Seven: Lamb and Cinnamon Ice Cream**

Kylo Ren had been in the middle of hosting a very exclusive dinner party at Vader when Snoke called to inform him that Poe Dameron stepped up to participate on  _ Iron Chef America _ . It was a birthday party for the wife of a Kentucky congressman, with a guest list that was comprised of several key state legislators, a few country music favorites and one up-and-coming local starlet.  Ren had worked on the menu for weeks, a laborious task of trial-and-error to pair each course with the congressman’s favorite bourbon.  He wasted a whole week alone procuring a tomahawk cut ribeye steak that met his standards, and he even paid to fly that pain-in-the-ass mixologist from Louisville to New York because according to the birthday girl, “a yank can’t make a proper mint julep to save his life.”

His hard work paid off, as it always did.  Each coarse garnered more praise than the last, and the dinner wasn’t even halfway over before the starlet started making very promising doe eyes at him from across the dining room.

Then came the call from Snoke, and everything started to go to shit.

The old buzzard had a sixth sense of calling Ren when he would be at his most inconvenienced, such as right before an interview, or when he was cooking an exclusive dinner for an important patron.  It was almost a sick game that Snoke liked to play, riling Ren up to the point where his composure would crack just before he met an audience, then reaming him for his poor presentation later.  And it worked too, damn him, even though Ren always told himself that he wouldn’t let it happen again next time.  But it always did, and this time the error materialized in the form of over-cooking the sweet corn that was part of a relish that was to accompany the Louisville DA’s salmon.  The realization of what happened came too late, and when the man took the first bite, a look of “something doesn’t taste quite right” flashed across his face.

Ren managed to maintain enough control to wait until the party left before he seized what remained of the congressman’s $1200 bottle of Mitcher’s Limited Release Straight Bourbon and hurtled it across Vader’s dining room with a snarl.  It was one of those times when Ren fantasized about storming Snoke’s office with a canister of gasoline and setting it ablaze, taking his benefactor and that damned contract with it.  Then, like clockwork, he would feel sick with shame and guilt and, most of all, fear that Snoke would somehow find out what he was thinking.  Ren owed everything he was to Giaccovani Snoke, and he knew all too well that the business monger could strip Ren back to nothing with a single snap of his fingers.  If occasionally performing like a trained monkey on that insipid TV show was the price to pay to maintain all he worked for, then so be it.

It took about a day for the haze of rage to finally wear off, allowing Ren to fully ingest the information Snoke gave him.  He did not have the slightest inkling of doubt that Poe’s long-awaited acceptance to be a challenger on  _ ICA _ was in response to Snoke’s smear campaign against Leia Organa; of course her golden boy would come riding in on a white charger to defend her honor.  Though he loathed to admit it, Dameron was going to be a force to be reckoned with.  He had both real talent and vision, a rare combination in a city full of hacks.

Then again, maybe a legitimate challenge would be a welcome change of pace.  While all of the guest chefs - as well as most of the other Iron Chefs - sweated and swore their way through the task of creating five dishes on the fly, Ren practically waltzed through the hour time limit without missing a step.  He even went into one episode half-drunk just to shake things up a bit, and he still managed to win by a solid ten points.

(Hux shouted at Ren for twenty minutes before they started filming for his “irreputable behavior.”  The look of shock on the ginger’s face when it was announced their side had won was better than the victory itself.)

With Dameron, though, everything was going to be different.  There was no way Snoke was going to let him half-ass his way through this one.  The culinary world was growing on an exponential level each year, and although Snoke was currently the king of the New York culture scene, it was a precarious seat to hold at best.  People fell from grace hard and fast in the 21st century; the mad dogs of the press and social media could rip them to shreds in the same time it took to hit the “publish” button on their computers.  And if Snoke were ever to take such a fall, he’d take whoever was closest to him down as well.

As one of those close people, Ren could not afford to fuck this up.

Knocking back the last of his scotch, Ren selected Hux’s name from the speed dial list on his phone.

“We have work to do,” he said.

* * *

 

He almost laughed out loud when the secret ingredient was revealed.  Almost.

He almost felt sorry for Dameron, too.  Ren wondered if Snoke had a hand in making sure that the other chef was not only defeated in the worse way possible, but utterly humiliated at the same time.  That would be cruel trick, even for him.  Then Dameron went on to make some smart-ass comment, and whatever sympathy Ren felt toward him was burned away with the flash fire of his temper.

And the day was not yet done yielding its surprises.  One of the two sous chefs Dameron was allotted to bring with him was none other than Finn Trooper, the pastry chef who had hand picked by Snoke himself for Finalizer, only to go MIA one shift and never return.  Ren felt his irritation prickle anew.  It would be like Dameron to bring a traitor of the likes of Trooper with him to rub salt in the proverbial wound.  His second sous chef was nothing more than a slip of a girl who didn’t look a day over twenty; far too young to have any sustancial kitchen experience.  At first glance she looked like she’d flee the set if someone said so much as “boo” to her, but when he looked again he noticed the toned muscles under the tanned skin of her arms, and her eyes were sharp and quick, taking in everything around her.  It was the look of someone who was used to taking care of herself, who was constantly ready for anything, and who wasn’t opposed to fighting if the occasion called for it.

“Who’s the girl?” Ren asked Hux just as the battle was underway.

“That’s Dameron’s  _ prep cook _ , of all things.  Rey-something.  Said she’s only been cooking professionally for two years with no prior experience in the kitchen.  No internships, no schooling, unless you count a stint at NYU for engineering.”

Ren’s head snapped up to stare incredulously at her, catching the barest glimpse of her hazel eyes before her averted her attention back to her work.  The exposed back of her neck burning red, betraying the obvious fact that she had been watching him.

Ren felt his blood boil more fiercely than it had since before he arrived on set.  Poe honestly brought someone who only had two years experience working in a high-class kitchen with him?  Ren was still chopping vegetables and gutting fish during his second year at the first restaurant he worked at.  If she worked at Vader - which was highly unlikely in of itself - he wouldn’t let her near a stove unless it was to clean it, much less help prepare a meal that was going to be served to a panel of some of the most renowned food lovers in the country.  What the  _ fuck _ was Dameron playing at?

The girl looked back up at him, as though she could sense him still staring at her.  He sent her his nastiest glower in return, just to see what her reaction would be.

Much to his surprise and unprecedented delight, she sneering right back, her eyes twin shards of topaz without a trace of fear or intimidation in them.

To his surprise, Ren did not feel the familiar hot surge of his temper, but rather a pique of curiosity instead.  

After that, there was very little time to think of anything else other than cooking.  Ren put Hux in charge of the majority of the prep work.  The man was insufferable beyond reason, but no one could pick out imperfections on food as he could.  Phasma immediately went to work on the pasta, separating egg yolks from the whites and dropped them into the hollowed-out well in a mound of flour.  Ren oversaw the preparations of all the bases himself, following his own time-tested mantra that a recipe with a weak base wasn’t worth making at all, and therefore he wanted to ensure it was done right.

Soon all thoughts of Dameron and his irritating tactics fell on the wayside as Ren slipped seamlessly into his natural element, his course of action unfurling like a map before his mind’s eye.  The sauces and poaching liquids had to come first, of course, in order to give them time to reach their appropriate temperatures and for all the flavors to become properly infused.  Dark beef stock, a bottle of port wine, a few handfuls of cherries and some thyme went into one deep saucepan while sparkling wine, finely chopped shallots, and liquor from the freshly-shucked oysters went into another.  As he worked on grinding the spices from the rub for the duck tenderloins he just butchered (black peppercorns, allspice berries, orange zest) it seemed like it was going to be just another boring, waste-of-his-time episode despite all the build up.  Alton Brown’s first commentary on Dameron’s side was so far yielding nothing interesting.  Poe was preparing a spice mixture of his own (chili powder and coffee from the altar, along with dark brown sugar, coriander, oregano, ginger and some others) for some oxtails laid out on his board, and Trooper was working on a batter at one of the mixers (chocolate cake for an aphrodisiac battle?  How fucking original).  The girl, unsurprisingly, was breaking down a number of ingredients and distributing them amongst Dameron and Trooper’s stations before returning to her small tasks (Alton specifically pointed out her hairstyle, which consisted of three buns knotted down the back of her head, as “the most unique he’s ever seen in Kitchen Stadium”).  The notorious reputation of Poe Dameron was, like all the others’, ended up being nothing more than a disappointment.

Kevin Brauch, introduced per usual as Alton’s “favorite Canadian in the whole wide world.” began to make his rounds through Kitchen Stadium to snatch a quick interview with the chefs before joining in on the commentary.  Ren had nothing against Brauch on a personal level, but the co-host quickly learned that Ren was not to be hovered over during a battle.  Yet even with that understanding reached, Brauch kept a wide breadth of Ren when he approached him.

“Iron Chef Ren, always an honor to see your work,” Kevin Brauch said, holding his clipboard in front of him not unlike a shield.  “I expect that we’ll be seeing a special sort of magic coming from you today with the secret ingredient?”

“Would you give Bernini a block a marble and then doubt his ability to turn it into a masterpiece to his face?” Ren said cooly, not taking his eyes off the lamb loin he was now slicing into perfect rectangular portions.

Kevin held up his hands and took a wise step backwards.  “That’s as good of an answer as any.  I’ll leave you to it.”  He quickly hustled over to the other side.

“Chef Dameron, a pleasure to see you here,” Kevin greeted the other man.

“A pleasure to be here,” Poe said jovially back, pulling a cut of deeply marbled beef tenderloin towards him and began to finely chop it up in a classic tartare preparation.

“So, I have to ask the question everyone wants to know the answer to: what made you decide to come onto  _ Iron Chef America _ after so many refused invitations?”

“Well, you know Kevin, I’ve been very blessed in working with many talented chefs in my kitchen, but I always knew I needed something extra special for when I finally faced off against Ren.  Now that I have my secret weapon I think we have the advantage we need to win today.”

“Oh,” was all Kevin said in response, his eyebrows shooting towards his hairline.  “So, is there any insight to what this secret weapon might be?”

Dameron laughed as he put the last few chops on his tartar.  “If I did that it wouldn’t be a secret then, would it?  Can’t give the home team too much of an advantage.”

Ren looked at Dameron briefly, then rolled his eyes and returned his focus to his work.

Ren, Hux and Phasma worked with machine-like precision, having to only speak minimally to each other as they worked to make sure everyone was on track (though it was largely for the sake of the cameras).  Dameron’s side of Kitchen Stadium was much more animated, the chefs ducking and dodging around one another as they dashed between the altar to the pantry to the convection ovens and the grill tops.  Kevin Brauch made his introduction of the judges, interviewing them briefly on their views of that day’s theme.  Two of the three judges agreed that it was going to be a tough battle for Dameron as he was going up against a chef whose whole career was rooted in creating sexy and sensual dishes.  Jeffrey Steingarten, per usual, had to put in his unwanted two cents by disagreeing with them and stating that he expected to see new material from Ren and not the usual fair he served at his restaurant.

(Steingarten was also a long-time adversary of Snoke, so Ren learned not to give a rat’s ass worth of concern over his over-inflated opinions a long time ago).

At forty minutes left on the clock, Hux started to blanch a few handfuls of spinach while finely sliced shallots popped and sizzled in a puddle of melted butter in a heavy-bottomed saucepan at his elbow, and Phasma was rolling her pasta dough through the attachment on the stand mixer.  Over on the other side, Trooper loaded a tray of ramekins filled with baby-pink custard into an oven to be steamed, Dameron was mixing chopped anchovies, capers, red onions and egg yolks to his beef tartare, and the girl was vigorously peeling a pile of multi-colored carrots and dumping them into a pot of boiling water.  This was generally the time when tension started to rise on the opposite side like the incoming tide, but Dameron was barely breaking a sweat.  In fact, Ren didn’t doubt that he was enjoying every minute of it.  It was not a surprise that Dameron wouldn’t buckle under the pressure, not only because his career and reputation required it of him, but also to endure Snoke’s undercurrent of influence for so long.  Trooper, on the other hand, was definitely beginning to look worse for wear.  Rivulets of sweat were running down his face, and Ren could detect the start of a slight tremor in his hands that would make things like precise measurements or delicate plating difficult, which could affect the outcome of the dish and ultimately cost Poe valuable points when it came time to judge.  It wouldn’t be the first time a challenging chef lost due to their sous chefs’ incompetence, but that was their own fault.

But the girl.  The girl was another matter altogether.

In addition to her own tasks she was responsible for, she had the talent of being wherever Dameron needed her to be, seemingly at the same time, to hell with whoever was in her way.  Kevin Brauch had to leap out of the way on more than one occasion as she barrelled past him.  Ren even heard Hux give an indignant yelp when she nearly collided with him at the altar to snag a box of uni out from under his nose.  And she was  _ noisy _ , yelling an exuberant “yes, chef!” to every order she was given.  The longer the battle went on, the more aggravating Ren found her to be.  Her lack of formal training or extended experience was painfully obvious to him, and it was threatening to drive him to distraction.  If this was Dameron’s idea of a “secret weapon” it was a low blow, even for rival chefs such as themselves.

To add insult to injury, Dameron - a goddamn two star Michelin star chef - was asking for advice from his  _ prep cook _ on his  _ own dishes. _  Every so often he was call the girl over to his station to try a little of whatever he was working on.  After a few second’s deliberation she would make a suggestion, and he would actually take it!  Just who the hell was this girl, and where did she come from?  More importantly, what was so special about her that had Dameron putting so much trust in her?

“ _ Ren _ !” Hux hissed to his right, immediately snapping Ren back to himself.  With a string of curses that would later be edited to one long censoring tone when the episode aired, Ren plucked the piece of lamb off the grill and deposited it on a waiting plate, the heat and the seeping oils having little effect on the hard-earned calluses on his fingers.  He had to bite back another wave of violent swearing as he surveyed the damage.  The lamb wasn’t ruined, but it was far from the perfection he was known for: the too-dark char on the outside would surely overpower the flavor of the marinade and the meat itself.  He barked at Alton for the time, only to realize that nearly everyone in the studio - Hux, Phasma, Alton Brown and Kevin Brauch, the judges and filming crew, even the Chairman - were all staring at him with a mix of amazement of confusion.  He knew exactly why, too, as surely as if could read their minds.  In his whole history on  _ ICA _ , Ren had yet to make a mistake in front of the cameras, or lose his concentration or allow himself to be distracted by the competition, and now he had done all three within a span of seconds.  The embarrassment of it made his ears burn under his hair and a barely-contained wave of fury roil through him like an oncoming storm cell.

Alton Brown must have sensed it too because he came back to himself with a start, stammering that there was thirty-two minutes left on the clock.  Ren suppressed the urge to grab the nearest piece of equipment and throw it across the studio.  He had no time to marinade, grill, and rest more lamb before the hour was up, forcing him to make due with what he had.  No matter: he had to work with worse before, and the true skill of a chef always materialized in their ability to improvise.  Just so long as he didn’t let anything else get under his skin he could still crush Dameron.  Some pain-in-the-ass prep cook with a ridiculous hairstyle wasn’t going to stop that.

It just took just six minutes for her to prove him wrong.

“Shit,” came Trooper’s sickened lament from their side of the stadium.  “Shit, shit,  _ shit.” _

“What’s wrong, Finn?” Dameron asked without looking back at him.

“There’s something wrong with the ice cream machine.” Panic seasoned Trooper’s voice.  At the top of the battle he made a base for cinnamon ice cream and poured it into the machine, but after twenty minutes it was still only a frothy liquid.  “It’s not freezing.”

For the first time since the start of the battle Dameron’s attention broke away from his cooking, but before he could give Trooper any new directions  _ she _ was already at the accursed machine, her ear pressed to the side panel, frowning deeply.

“Can you fix it?” Finn asked anxiously.  

“If I have the time, yeah,” she said.  She pulled her ear away and called for the time.

“ _ Twenty-five minutes to go _ ,” a cool, automated female voice said over the loudspeakers.

She looked at Dameron, their eyes locking.

“Do it,” he said.

The attention of every person was fixated on her as she made a mad dash back to her station and pulled some kind of rolled canvas out from a cubby.  Racing back to the ice cream machine, she unfurled the canvas on an unused section of a prep table to reveal an assortment of hardware tools.  Selecting one of the screw drivers, she turned the machine off and set to work at loosening the screws that held the main side panel in place with practiced ease, carefully setting each one aside as they fell into her hand.  The panel came off with one tug and was set at her feet, then she was elbow-deep in the ice cream machine’s mechanical guts, trying to locate the problem.  There were few comments made as she worked; even Alton Brown and Kevin Brauch were at a loss for words, a monumental moment of its own.  The only people who were not affected by what she was doing was Dameron and Trooper, who continued preparing their meals as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.  

Finally a smile bloomed on her face, and with a triumphant “Got it!” the ice cream machine  _ clunked _ , whirred, and the outer metal casing immediately frosted over.  Alton, Kevin, and the judges - Jeffrey included - were sputtering and exclaiming their amazement, stating over and over that nothing like that had ever happened before, and was sure to go down in  _ ICA _ history.

The girl returned to her station, thoroughly washing her hands and getting back to work as though nothing happened.  Just as she started shucking a pile of oysters of her own, her eyes flickered up to his, capturing and holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long time.  Then she smiled, showing off her perfect white teeth.  She looked positively wolfish.  She was also, he noticed for the first time, very, very pretty.

“Try doing that with your fancy credentials,” she shot at him.

_ Rey, _ he thought suddenly.   _ Her name is Rey. _

A bolt of inspiration struck him.  According to the clock, they had just twenty minutes left; hardly enough time to scrap one dish and start another from scratch.  It was practically suicide, and Hux was very keen to remind him of that fact when Ren ordered him to stop working on what he was currently attending to and start deseeding a pomegranate instead, but he didn’t care.  He wouldn’t be Kylo Ren is he played it safe.  Besides, Dameron had his tricks, and Ren had his.  Ren owed it to Dameron for making this one of the most interesting days he had in a long time.

It was only fair, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's watched _Iron Chef America_ knows that the ice cream machines are cursed, so it seemed appropriate to include that in this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> [Grilled Salmon with Sweet Corn and Bacon Relish](http://allrecipes.com/recipe/233975/grilled-salmon-with-bacon-and-corn-relish/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Classic Mint Julep](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/mint-julep-recipe)
> 
>  
> 
> [Cinnamon Ice Cream](http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/cinnamon-ice-cream/)
> 
>  
> 
> Last but not least, a little reading up on [ Jeffrey Steingarten, ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeffrey_Steingarten) a regular fixture in Kitchen Stadium. I have yet to read his book, but it is definitely on my to-read list.
> 
> My Tumblr accounts: [Omegaling](http://omegaling.tumblr.com) and [The Sleepless Author](http://thesleeplessauthor.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter Eight: Chocolate and Pomegranates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason why only Jeffrey Steingarten is the named/known judge is because his voice is the easiest to envision when writing. But as I was writing this, the female judge could very easily be Katie Hoffman. I'll try to go back and change that later in a revision.

**Chapter Eight: Chocolate and Pomegranates**

After her small, personal victory over the Iron Chef’s team - the look on Kylo Ren’s face when she fixed the ice cream machine was enough of a reward on its own whether she, Poe, and Finn won or lost today - she turned her whole focus back to the battle at hand.  They only had a scant twenty minutes left, and each second had to be utilized.  

“Rey, how’s that tartare dish coming?” Poe called.  The majority of the cooking was beginning to wrap up, and he had already started to arrange plates and various styles of dishes on the counter.  Four pastry bags were laid out by his elbow, and he alternated through them as he carefully piped the pureed rainbow carrots and parsnips into a spiral design on a square plate - white, orange, and a thin curl of purple to tie it together.

“Ready for plating, chef!” Rey called back, pulling several long, thin tubes of wax paper out of a hotel pan they were resting in.  Shortly before the fiasco with the ice cream machine, Rey peeled some avocados and cut the pliable flesh into paper-thin slices, then rolled them tightly around Poe’s wagyu tartare.  The avocado-rolled tartare held together beautifully when Rey undid the wax-paper binding, and with a feather-light touch she cut the bright green cylinders into equal-sized portions.  Three went down on the plate prepped for her, one topped with a quail egg yolk, one with the pulp and seeds of a cherry tomato, and the last with a heap of black caviar.  Across from her, Finn was plating his perfectly pink strawberry flan atop a drizzle of deep red fruit puree, then added a puff of sweetened milk foam off to the side.  

Rey could not see what was happening on Ren’s side, but the snippets she caught of Alton Brown and Kevin Brauch’s running commentary kept her updated.  Phasma was spooning a sauce made of uni and copious amounts of French butter onto a whorl of her fresh-made pasta.  Hux lay a bed of cooked spinach on steamed artichoke hearts, which was then topped with a fat oyster that had been poached in a champagne-based broth, and Ren was drizzling slices of seared duck breast with a cherry and reduced port wine sauce so dark it was nearly black.  Basically, it all sounded like the dishes one would expect to be made with aphrodisiac ingredients.

And Rey didn’t like it.  She had seen the photos of the food Ren made in his restaurant and watched and rewatched all of his _ICA_ episodes.  She knew what he was capable of doing in an hour’s time, so why was he suddenly holding back and playing it safe?  Was he hoping to mock and humiliate Poe by winning the battle with a half-assed meal?  Based on the little she knew of him, it felt exactly like the kind of douchebag move he’d do.

Then again…

It could very well be that that was exactly what he wanted them to think.  Rey had watched all his battles too closely (entirely for research purposes, she kept telling herself) to not pick up on his patterns and techniques.  After a while, Rey started to feel sorry for the chefs who thought they would finally be the one to topple his title of being the only undefeated Iron Chef in the show’s history by skill alone.  Almost all of them were wholly unprepared for the sheer crushing weight of his mere presence when they were finally face-to-face with him, their confidence shot before the secret ingredient was even revealed.  Those were the battles where Ren always looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than there - or that he’d sooner snap the challenger’s neck and be done with it.  There were a few episodes where Rey truly concerned for the other chef’s mental and physical well-being.

Every now and then, though, a chef came into the stadium who didn’t immediately wither under Ren’s initial glare, and the game shifted into an entirely new gear.  Both the proverbial and literal knives came out right from the start, Ren pulling out every stop to painfully remind the challenger why Vader was one of the top restaurants in the country and why he was Snoke’s protege.   _That_ was the kind of battle Rey had been mentally preparing herself for for the last two weeks.  Poe would never allow Ren to intimidate him into submission, so she fully expected today’s battle to be especially ugly.

Except that it wasn’t.

Other than the occasional insult the two sides hurtled across the studio at each other at the top of the battle, the first fifty minutes had been unexpectedly tame.  She had a dark feeling that Ren was up to something on the other side of the kitchen; she overheard Alton saying something about him scrapping one of his ongoing dishes and starting on something new from scratch, and then Kevin confirming it a moment later, but everything turned so fast and furious that she couldn’t follow anything else they said after that.  It made her nervous.  Ren was turning out to be a much more complex person than Rey originally took him for, which left her feeling unnerved.

“ _Ten minutes to go.”_

“I’ll finish this,” Poe said as he laid down his coffee- and spice-rubbed oxtail on his bed of pureed carrots and parsnips.  “I need you to get on the hollandaise sauce.  We’re way behind schedule.”

“Yes, chef,” Rey said, surrendering her garnishes to him before dashing back to the stove, a small thrill not unlike panic jolting through her.  Her little stunt with the ice cream machine had cost them valuable time: she was supposed to start on the hollandaise sauce for the oyster presentation five minutes ago.  Luckily she had the foresight to prep it ahead of time; her double-boiler was at a perfect simmer, the butter she needed completely melted. Rey deftly separated four egg yolks into the top pot of the boiler, whisking them with a dash of lemon juice so ferociously that her shoulder burned at the joint after the first minute.  Hollandaise was, in truth, one of Rey’s least favorite things to make.  It was one of the main reasons why she was grateful that Poe gave her so few brunch shifts when he incorporated it into their menu.  It all came down to proper timing, of which she had very little of.  Force the mixture to cook too fast, and you were left with a scrambled mess (although it was pretty good on toast).  Don’t cook it long enough, and you have a weak, watery abomination with no flavor.  Start it too soon, and all the ingredients separate and congeal and become horrible.  The clock hit the five minute mark when she started to add her butter to the thickened yolks, and in that instant she hated Poe for adding this specific item to their lineup.

She certainly wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure.  Finn had slipped into a stoic state he only adapted when his stress levels maxed out, rolling out cinnamon ice cream quenelles for his Mexican hot chocolate cake with mechanical, almost robot-like precision.  Poe darted back and forth among his dishes like a giant bird, garnishing and adjusting them as he went.  Rey had never seen him look so harried, not even on those nights at BB8 when they had a full dining room and everything in the kitchen seemed to go wrong.  Even Ren’s side, who were infamous for maintaining their icy composure no matter what the situation, was caught up in the chaos of those final few minutes.  It was not immediately clear to the untrained eye, but Rey could see it in the line of tension in Ren’s broad shoulders and the way Phasma pressed her lips so tightly together.  Rey was sure Alton and Kevin picked up on it as well, but one look at the maniac, almost homicidal gleam in Hux’s eyes was more than enough to warn them to keep quiet on the matter.

_“Two minutes to go.”_

“Rey, I need that hollandais, pronto!”

Knowing she had to cut her losses and that they were just going to have to work with what they had, Rey took the whole pot over to him, still whisking vigorously as she went.  Poe was putting the final touch on his oyster ceviche on a half-shell.  A second oyster rested on a bed of sauted spinach awaited her hollandais, and a third mollusk stewed in a tall, thin glass containing the smoked cocktail juice she helped prepare earlier.  Across the table, Finn poured his lavender-infused honey sauce over his strawberry flan.

“ _One minute to go.”_

“You can finish this, right?” Poe asked, breaking away to rush towards the fridge before Rey could answer the question.

“A little late to be making last-minute additions, don’t you think?” she called across the kitchen to him, but she had a feeling that whatever he was after had nothing to do with the plates they were finishing up.  As soon as she made her final touch to their dishes - a small, plump piece of uni atop their fancied-up oysters Rockefeller - she felt a significant loosening around her chest, like some great big bloody snake had been gradually constricting her for the last hour and suddenly let go.  Finn garnished his flan with a sprig of mint and immediately snapped out of his stress-induced catatonic state with a gargantuan sigh, looking for all the world like he was ready to collapse where he stood.  

Poe returned from his mystery errand with a bottle of prosecco in hand and one hell of a cheeky smile on his face.  Rey couldn’t help but laugh aloud.  “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

“A spectacular performance deserves an equally spectacular ending,” Poe said, picking up a large knife.  With a practiced flick of his wrist, the cork was sent flying from the neck of the bottle with a resounding _POP_ just as the buzzer sounded.

“Put it down and walk away!” Alton crowed from his station.

“You’re such a freaking show-off, you know that?” Finn scolded him, even though he was smiling and already prepared to catch the foaming liquid in a couple of glasses.  “Don’t you ever put us through something like that again!”

"Oh, you'll thank me for it later and you know it," Poe sniggered back, leaning forward to give Finn a quick but nonetheless passionate kiss.

Rey, overwhelmed by a wave of pure giddiness, threw herself at Poe and Finn, wrapping an arm around each of their necks, sloshing a good deal of prosecco out of the glasses and on them instead.  They had done it, and with time to spare, no less.  On a show like _Iron Chef America_ , it was liking finishing a race a mile ahead of the rest of the competition.

On all the other episodes of Iron Chef America, the end of the battle signalled the time for the two teams to come together to offer their congratulations for a battle well-fought, which genuinely consisted of a lot of hand-shaking, back-thumping and more than a few hugs all around.  Of course, Ren’s team, with their fancy endorsement from Gioccavani Snoke and world-renowned praise for their food, were always too good for that, choosing to stand separate and look haughty because god forbid they ever looked like they were enjoying themselves.  When Rey happened to glance over to their side, however, she saw Ren was looking at her.  She braced herself, fully prepared to throw back the smirk or glower or whatever other nasty look she was sure he was about to give them.

What she was not prepared for was his nod in her direction.

Rey, unsure of how to process this unseen turn of events, nodded back.

She was jarred from her bewilderment when Poe threw an arm around her shoulders.  She hadn’t even realized that he had already finished his post-battle interview with Kevin Brauch.  “Come on, kid.  The easy part is done.  Now we get to see whether or not the judges actually like any of it.”

* * *

 

Since only the Iron Chef and the challenging chef were allowed in the presentation to the judges, Rey and Finn had to watch the entire proceedings from the stadium floor.  Now that the cooking portion was over, she and Finn had flipped roles: he was the one who was calm and collected, and she the one jittery with impatience.  The rush of the last hour made her forget that they were still filming a television episode, and now that that part was done the stage manager was back, barking orders on who needed to be where and the time frames they had to adhere to.  For Rey, who always needed to do something with her hands, having to just sit there while the Chairman and the judges ate their way through ten courses was  short of torture.  She wasn’t even allowed to help clean up the monumental mess they made, which meant she could do nothing but literally sit on her hands and wait.

Poe went first after Kevin gave the usual run-down of how the judging worked (“Ten points for taste, five points for plating design, and five points for the chef’s creativity in the use of the secret theme ingredient”).  Rey felt a spike of apprehension when the first of their dishes - an appetizer of oysters prepared three different ways - was laid out before the judges.  Poe briefly explained his inspiration for the course (“You can’t hear the word ‘aphrodisiac’ without thinking ‘oysters.’”), followed by a summary of key ingredients and the different components of the dish.  Rey held her breath as the first of the oysters disappeared into the judges’ mouths.  

It was only a few scant seconds later that the praise started pouring forth, and did not let up for the entire judging session.  The nervous energy that had been flooding Rey’s system evaporates almost instantaneously, turning instead into a surging tide of pride.  Normally, the judges on _ICA_ would give their individual opinions on each course, pointing out its strengths and weaknesses and how well the secret ingredient was integrated into the dish, along with the occasional banter thrown in between each other and the chefs for good measure.  It was generally a very organized affair, with the floor manager giving cues and instructions on how long they spent of each dish and making sure everyone said something so the post-production team had plenty of material to work with.  

That status quo was utterly forgotten as the judges began to talk over one another in their enthusiasm, desperate to say everything they wanted to before the floor manager started to impatiently wave for the next course to be brought out.  Rey couldn’t help the massive grin on her face as they raved about Poe’s and, by extension, her and Finn’s food.  They could not seem to get over the genius blending of flavors and textures, or the sheer artistic quality of Poe’s plating technique.  Jeffrey Steingarten seems especially keen in emphasizing Poe’s approach to recipes that were typically very much overdone in the gourmet kitchen.  Though Rey did not doubt the sincerity of his comment, she couldn’t help but wonder if he purposely said it just to get a rise out of Ren.

When their last course was presented to the judges - Finn’s Mexican hot chocolate cake with cinnamon ice cream - when one of them at least breached the subject that Rey had been waiting for.  “Tell me, Chef Dameron, because we’re all dying to know: was your ‘secret weapon’ your spitfire of a sous chef fixing the ice cream machine if it started acting up on you?”

Poe threw back his head and laughed.  “Believe it or not, that was entirely coincidental.  No, Rey has a much more special skill that makes her an invaluable addition to my team in the kitchen.”

“Oh?” The judge cocked an eyebrow at Poe.  “Any chance you’re going to tell us what that is, or are you just going to leave us hanging?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you hanging this time,” Poe said with his most winning smile.  “Just because I agreed to be on the show doesn’t mean I’m going to give up my secrets all at once.”

Finn jabbed Rey in the side with his elbow, making her jump.  When she looked at him he inclined his head sharply towards Poe, silently asking her what secrets they were keeping from him.  Rey shrugged and shook her head, trying to tell him that her guess was just as good as his.  Two years ago the mere suggestion of secrets being kept from her, especially when they were _about_ her, would have raised every wall she built to protect herself while in the system, but now she only made a mental note to give Poe a stern talking-to later.

“Chef Dameron,” the Chairman said as the very last bite of cake disappeared from the plates. “Thank you for a truly spectacular meal.”

Applause rang out through the studio and Poe shook hands with the judges, who still weren’t done giving him their compliments.  Rey was more than happy that the judging went so well - not that she had any doubts that it would go any other way - but her earlier anxiety returned to dig its claws into her even deeper than before as Kylo Ren stepped up to the stage.

Ren’s judging turned out to be infinitely worse than Rey feared.

The first course set the tone.  Ren also opened with his  oyster appetizer.  As soon as it was placed before the judges, one of them began to giggle and clasped her hands over her mouth, unable to hide the blush spreading over her face.  Even Jeffrey raised her eyebrows.

“Mr. Chairman, I do believe your producers will have to censor this from the general viewing public when it’s aired on television,” he commented in his deadpan voice.  His fork hovered over the dish, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to go about eating it.  Rey couldn’t see Ren’s dish from where she was seated, but based on what she had seen of his other food from Vader and his previous episodes she could only imagine what liberties he took today.  Not a very promising start for Team Dameron.

It got worse when the judges started eating.  What Rey had earlier assumed to be typical, even boring uses of the ingredients were quickly proven to be anything but.  Per usual, Ren said little when introducing each dish, opting to let his food do his talking for him.  It certainly had a lot of say today, though it was mostly in the form of eye-rolling and moaning rather than the constant chatter that Poe’s food invoked.  Finn shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Rey couldn’t blame him.  She was feeling more and more voyeuristic, like they were invading on something that should be private and intimate.  Even the slightly overdone lamb paired with avocado and watermelon couldn’t alter the fact that their side was in trouble.

Then came the dessert. At first glance it was deceptively simple; nothing more than a sphere of chocolate sitting in the middle of a plate with no other garnishes, accompanied only by a small, slightly steaming white pitcher.  Ren said even less about it than usual, only instructing the Chairman and the judges to pour the contents of the pitcher over the sphere.  Rey half-stood in her chair, her curiosity finally getting the better of her.  The judges took up their pitchers and poured a stream of thick, melted dark chocolate on the spheres.  Chocolate enveloped chocolate, and a second later the spheres broke apart like a blooming flower, revealing a center of soft pink sorbet beneath sugar-dusted flower petals and a sprinkling of pomegranate seeds.  There was a chorus of gasps from the judge’s table, and Rey felt something uncomfortable lodge low in her stomach.  She knew, without anyone having to say anything, that this was the mystery dish Ren started as the battle started coming into its home stretch.

“Just when I think I’ve seen you do it all, you still manage to surprise me,” Jeffrey Steingarten said, scooping some more of the sorbet into his spoon.  “This flavor… it’s pomegranate, am I correct?”

“It is,” Ren affirmed.

“I have a feeling there’s a specific source of inspiration behind this one,” the third judge said.

“As any self-respected chef and food critic knows, true aphrodisiacs are only a myth.  People like to think they work because it reminds them of a certain part of human anatomy, or because it's believed that consuming them increases blood flow or heart rate to help prepare for sex.  Those are only base, primal reactions they’re focusing on: in other words, _lust_.  For me, a true aphrodisiac should be something that makes us feel something deeper, something outside ourselves.  Take the pomegranate, for example.” Ren reached over to pluck a deep red pomegranate seed from the plate closest to him.  “In the myth of Hades and Persephone, Hades - Lord of the Underworld, besotted by the goddess of spring - offers his wife the seeds of a pomegranate so she might return to him year after year, despite her mother’s resentment of the arrangement.  Their love is one that should not be…” His words hung in the air as his line of sight found Rey’s like a homing beacon: “Yet it is the passion of it that people continue to be enthralled with, even though their story is tens of centuries old.  Here we have the sweetness of the pomegranate, married to the dark temptation represented by the chocolate.  What can possibly be more sensual than that?”

Rey fell heavily back into her chair, suddenly finding a stain on her apron very interesting.  She could feel Finn’s gaze boring into the side of her head, but she pointedly ignored him.  Ren was obviously trying to her under her skin, to get her back for making fools of him and his sous for the ice cream machine.  But the cooking was long since done, and the judging was wrapping up; she couldn’t imagine what he was possibly hoping to gain by it now.

It was still easier to think about than any alternative.

* * *

 

The judging was done, the altar of the secret ingredient cleared away, and Kylo Ren and Poe Dameron stood before the Chairman, waiting for the verdict to be announced.

Rey and Finn stood outside the camera’s shot, their sweaty hands clasped together.  Rey’s heart was beating so hard she could feel her pulse in every fiber of her being.  Standing opposite of them was Hux and Phasma, who were also looking nervous in their own stone-cold way.  Kylo Ren may be the Iron Chef, but they were part of the victory or defeat just as much as he was.

“Today, two champions met in Battle Aphrodisiacs,” the Chairman announced to the camera.  He turned to Poe and bowed, then repeated the motion to Iron Chef Ren.  “The judges have spoken.  And after a long and hard deliberation… The winner is…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally wrote Kylo Ren's Hades and Persephone speech in Mads Mikkelsen/Hannibal's voice. I think it actually helped.
> 
> Poe's avocado-wrapped tartare and Kylo Ren's lamb with avocado and watermelon were actually inspired by real dishes made on _Iron Chef America_. The avocado-wrapped tartare was on Bobby Flay vs. Jose Andres (who, in this story, is one of Poe's mentors) in Battle Goat, and the lamb dish on Babby Flay vs. Michael Smith in Battle Avocado. Unfortunately I don't have pictures or video links for either of them.
> 
> \--
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> Poe Dameron's Menu  
>   
> 
> [Oysters Ceviche](http://eatgulfseafood.com/recipes/Gulf-oyster-ceviche)
> 
>  
> 
> [Oysters Rockefeller](https://www.ricardocuisine.com/en/recipes/3355-rockfeller-oysters)
> 
>  
> 
> [Classic steak tartare](https://www.macheesmo.com/perfect-steak-tartare-at-home/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Coffee and spice rub for beef dishes](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/bobby-flay/coffee-rubbed-rib-eye-recipe)
> 
>  
> 
> [Strawberry Flan](http://www.spain-recipes.com/strawberry-flan.html)
> 
>  
> 
> [Mexican Hot Chocolate Cake](http://www.thetomatotart.com/recipe/mexican-hot-chocolate-cake-with-ganache-frosting-inspired-by-david-lebovitz/)
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> Kylo Ren's Menu  
>   
> 
> [Oysters Poached in Champagne](http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/poached-oysters-and-artichokes-with-champagne-cream-236391)
> 
>  
> 
> [Uni carbonara](http://ladyandpups.com/2015/08/18/uni-carbonara-with-pork-salt/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Seared duck breast with cherries and port wine sauce](http://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/seared-duck-breast-with-cherries-and-port-sauce)
> 
>  
> 
> [The Chocolate Ball](http://www.byrontalbott.com/the-chocolate-ball/)
> 
>  
> 
> [Pomegranate sorbet](http://www.rachaelraymag.com/recipe/pomegranate-sorbet)


	10. Chapter Nine: Otoro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologizes for the delay, friends. I started this chapter on April 15, and then agonized over a writer's block for nearly two months before I finally figured out how to fix it. It's a good-sized chapter - over 3200 words - and we also get the long-awaited first encounter between Rey and Kylo Ren. I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> There's much more I can say about this chapter, both here and at the end, but it's nearly 1:30 and I have to work tomorrow, so I'll do my best to answer any questions and fix any errors anyone catches when I'm not dead in my computer chair.

**Chapter Nine:** **_Otoro_ **

“A tie!”

Before those two words changed the course of her life, Rey was agonizingly preparing herself for defeat, especially in the aftermath of the judges fawning over Ren’s meal.  The most she could hope for was that Poe wasn’t crushed too horribly beneath the Iron Chef’s score and they could all leave with some pride in tact.  Now the Chairman’s words hung in the air like a pall of smoke, choking the entire studio into silence for a full ten seconds.

Then there came a sharp jolt of realization: _Ren’s never not won a battle before._  How was he going to react to that?  Ren’s temper and history of lashing out when things didn’t go his way were just as legendary in the culinary world as his cooking style.  Within those ten seconds of silence Rey was bombarded with mental images of ambulance lights, waiting areas in the emergency room, and highly publicized court dates.  She clutched Finn’s hand tighter, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Of the two chefs, Ren was the first to move; not to fly into a fit of rage, but to step towards Poe with one hand extended.  It took Poe only half a second longer to come back to himself and return the gesture.  If he was surprised by Ren’s act of civility, he did not show it as he and his long-time rival shook hands.

The applause from the audience and the judges caused Rey to jump, then release the breath she didn’t realize she was holding, her ribs burning as they were finally allowed to relax.  The two sides began to mingle together, though with some lingering tension.  Phasma approached Rey until she had to crane up to look at the blonde woman.  Phasma held out a hand, and Finn’s story of how she could cleave a side of beef with one blow niggled at her as Rey took it.

“You wield a mean knife,” Phasma said.  Her voice was not as deep as Rey thought it’s be, and it had a slight British lilt to it.  “It’s refreshing to be proven wrong every now and then, even if it does mean I have to listen to that one bitch about it for the next month.”  She jerked her head sharply in Hux’s direction.  The ginger sous chef was hovered at the edge of the convergence, looking for all the world like the grease trap in his kitchen just backed up.  Rey couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, I apologize for that in advance.  Good match today.  Your carbonara was beautiful.  I always enjoy watching you make your pasta dishes on the show.”

Phasma stared at Rey for a beat before responding with a subdued, “Thank you.  Very much.”  She looked at Finn, inclined her head in acknowledgement, then turned to rejoin Hux.

“Did I say something wrong?” Rey asked Finn once she was sure Phasma was out of earshot.

“No.  It might be because she’s probably not used to people saying more than five words to her before bolting immediately afterwards,” Finn replied with a shrug.

Rey felt a pang of empathy for the other female chef.  One of the first things she was quick to observed at the start of her new career was the major disproportion of male to female chefs.  Male chefs in the professional kitchen made up for more than half the workforce, and less than twenty percent of female chefs held head or executive positions in their own restaurants.  The ones who made the cut had to work hard for those coveted spots on the line, and had to work even harder to keep them.  Rey couldn’t imagine the trials and tribulations Phasma had to endure for the right to cook alongside chefs like Ren and Hux.  Finn’s stories were enough to convince Rey of the kind of reputation Phasma had to build for herself as a result.  Though their brief conversation had been civil, Rey wouldn’t blame Phasma if she disliked her for no other reason than Rey had the same job quite literally handed to her without all the bullshit that typically came with it.  Maybe once the episode aired and the dust settled she could invite the blonde chef out for drinks as a sort of peace offering - granted that it didn’t upset some absurd status quo laid down by Snoke.

The stage manager declared that episode a wrap, thanking everyone for their cooperation in the successful filming.  Ren and his sous chefs immediately disappeared backstage, but Poe, Finn, and Rey stayed to shake hands with Alton Brown, Kevin Brauch, and each of the judges in turn one last time.  When they got to the Chairman, he beamed proudly at all three of them.

“Thank you all for coming.  This will truly be a battle to remember.”  Then he looked pointedly at Rey and Finn.  “And I would be honored if you both returned one day as challenging chefs yourselves.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” they said in near tandem.  With one last round of farewells, Poe and his team exited Kitchen Stadium.

Rey was positively giddy as they made their way back to the guest dressing rooms, skipping on every other step.  They may not have won, per sae, but they didn’t lose either.  The score had been almost perfectly balanced; Ren triumphed in the taste portion, but Poe excelled in originality.  They scored evenly on plating design, resulting in a solid 55 points apiece. She could definitely live with that.

Suddenly Poe stretched out his arms to either side and simultaneously hooked them around Rey and Finn’s necks and pulled them to him, nearly knocking their skulls together.

“What do you two say to a celebration dinner?  Omakase at Ushiwakamaru, on me.”

Rey gasped as much as she was allowed from her choke hold.  “Ushiwakamaru?  But isn’t that place really expensive?”

“The way I see it, you two saved me from making a complete jackass of myself, so you’re worth every cent.  Besides, Hideo Kuribara and I made a bet before the show and now I need to collect.”

Finn rolled his eyes.  “How very Han Solo of you.”

Rey mock-scowled at him from under Poe’s arm.  “Don’t you dare drag Han Solo’s name in my presence, Finn Trooper,” she snapped.  Then she snickered.  “But you’re right.  That is very much something Han would do.”

In the early years of reality TV, Han Solo had been a household name, and his television show, _Going Solo_ , was one of Rey’s few childhood indulgences.  Once a week for a few precious months of the year, Rey would watch Han and his great big sheepdog Chewie traverse the entire country in their beat-up 1964 Ford Falcon, rooting out small town oddities and crashing favorite local eateries.  Someone always seemed to know him from somewhere, no matter how off the beaten path he went.  Though most of his reunions with old acquaintances were met with exuberance, a good number expressed exasperation when Han came sauntering into their establishment.  In one particularly memorable episode the chef of a small-town diner even pulled a gun on him, sending the camera crew fleeing for their lives.  Of course the show was hit with a fair amount of criticism, accusing it of glorifying a life of debauchery and vagrancy, but Rey didn’t care.  Han’s life was one of freedom, the ultimate dream for someone whose only identity was a case number in an uncaring system.  She had vowed to herself, as she watched the Falcon drive off into another sunset, that she would someday provide for herself so she could buy her freedom just as Han bought his.  It was what got her through every day for the next ten years, right up until the moment she stepped onto the bus bound for New York City.

Rey quickly changed out of her chef’s whites and back to what she’d come to think of as her civilian clothing, her stomach grumbling the whole time.  With the adrenaline high finally wearing off she was suddenly feeling ravenous.  And since Poe was insistent on paying for dinner, who was she to say no, especially when she could practically hear a perfectly poured Sapporo and beautifully marbled _otoro_ calling her name?

 _That is if we don’t lose our reservations because Finn and Poe took too long to get “changed,”_ Rey thought with a small smile as she waiting for them outside the men's’ dressing room.  She did not doubt that after the intensity of the battle they were both in need of a little... _release_ before going to dinner.  She couldn’t really blame them, but since Rey was absolutely certain that Finn would not be going home with her she wished they’d save it for later.  Her stomach gave an impatient rumble of agreement.

Suddenly the space around her seemed to darken, and when she looked up Kylo Ren was standing in front of her.

The time spent in his general proximity did very little to prepare Rey for actually coming face-to-face with him.  While he and Phasma were approximately the same height, the breadth of his chest and shoulders made him positively gargantuan by comparison.  He had traded his chef’s jacket for an all-black wardrobe, making Rey think of the dark king of the myth he recounted during the judging.  Though she kept telling herself that Kylo Ren did not intimidate her, the jump in her pulse suggested otherwise.

“If you’re looking for Poe, he’s not done changing,” Rey said quickly, taking charge of any conversation before it even started.  Men like Kylo Ren were used to having the upper hand in everything, but Rey was determined to make sure he knew she wasn’t having any of that.  Also, the last thing they needed was for Ren to walk in on Poe and Finn and create a whole new scandal for them to deal with.  “I can give him a message if you want.”

“Where did Dameron find you?” The question was curt, abrupt.  Ren’s deep voice seemed to fill every empty space of the narrow hall.

 _Well, nice to meet you too,_ Rey thought before she reminded herself that she didn’t exactly make an effort to extend an olive branch, either.  Instead she only tipped her chin up, holding her ground.  “Poe didn’t find me.  I came to him.”

“Dishwasher?” He said the word like it offended him, and Rey felt a fresh spike of annoyance.

“It was a cooking class at NYU, if you must know,” she said tightly.  “I wanted to learn how to cook for myself, and as it happened to turn out I had a natural knack for it.  He offered me a job in his kitchen, I accepted, and managed to get really good at it because I worked hard at it.”  She sighed, suddenly exasperated.  She had always done well at avoiding unnecessary drama in her life, so why start now by picking a bone with one of the biggest culinary names in the world?  “Look man, if you’re going to accuse me of lying, I’d rather you just do it to my face.  This might be hard for you to believe, but not everyone has the privilege to go to a fancy school like the CIA or travel internationally to learn from the masters.  Poe taught me what I need to know, and I’m good with that.”

Despite her bravado, Rey found herself holding her breath after her little outburst, bracing herself for Ren to make some vicious comeback, laced with insults and maybe a threat or two.  Instead, he only said in a softer voice, “You should not be merely ‘good with that.’”

Rey blinked, her brain needing to take a few extra seconds to catch up.  “Come again?”

“Has Dameron taught you how to remove all impurities for the perfect consomme?  Can you debone a duck for a _pâté de canard en croûte_ , recreate _tête de veau_ or know how to ensure your risotto has the right texture?  Do your souffles collapse or hold their shape?  I saw you struggle with your hollandaise sauce, so it’s safe to assume that you probably can’t prepare a decent bearnaise sauce either.”

“I… That is, I mean…” Rey floundered for something to say that wasn’t a blunt “no.”  Not that it wasn’t true: Poe ran a restaurant that was Spanish and Latin American inspired, and almost all the techniques and dishes Ran fired off were French, so of course Poe wouldn’t have showed her how to do them.  That didn’t mean she was about to admit that to someone like Kylo Ren.

“It doesn’t make sense that you have no desire to learn,” Ren continued.

“Now you’re putting words in my mouth,” Rey snapped indignantly.

“Because there is an undeniable passion within you for cooking,” he pressed on, cutting through her protest.  “I could see it in the way you handled your ingredients, in the way you wield your knife and how you attend to every detail on the plate with the scrutiny of a painter’s eye.  Dameron must recognize it too, seeing how much trust he puts in your input for his own recipes.  But staying with one technique, in one restaurant under one mentor, means you are doing nothing more productive than squandering your talent away, without even realizing it.  You have the potential to be so much more than that.”

Rey snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.  “So what are you offering, then?  That _you’ll_ teach me how to do all those things?”

Ren tilted his head to the side, and Rey could honestly not tell if he was considering her words, or if she said exactly what he was waiting for her to say.  “And if I did?  Would you accept?”

“No,” Rey blurted out without thinking.  She braced herself again for him to finally lash out - she couldn’t imagine he was used to being told “no” so many times by one person.  Instead, Ren only shrugged.

“Suit yourself.  If you’d rather settle for a career in mediocrity I can’t stop you.”

Rey wanted to throw her hands into the air.  By now she would almost prefer his infamous temper over whatever the hell he was doing.  “What is your deal?  Why do you care so much?  If you’re trying to talk me into working for your creepy boss then you can just piss off.”

“Snoke has nothing to do with this at the moment.  I just find it a shame to watch someone squander away their talent for the sake of pride.  But I will share this with you, chef to chef; Leia Organa is not the patron saint of restaurants and cooks as I’m sure Dameron has led you to believe.  She revers tradition, which means chefs trying to gain her favor never feel the need to be innovative or to step beyond their comfort zone.  Snoke only pays mind to those who do something worthy of his attention.  Stay where you are, and you’ll never need to worry about him looking even once in your direction.”

“Well, I would say I appreciate the advice, but that would be a lie,” Rey said as evenly as possible.  “Besides, I’m sure I can learn those recipes and techniques from any number of sources.  Who says I have to learn them exclusively from you?”

“We’ll see,” Ren replied with something akin to a smirk.  Then he was gone, melding back into the shadows from where he came, the heavy tread of his boots matching the thudding pulse in Rey’s head.

“Hey, kid.  Everything okay?”

Rey very near jumped out of her shoes at the sound of Poe’s voice, the shock jump-starting her brain.  Finn and Poe stood behind her, confusion painting both of their faces.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Finn remarked.

Rey realized then that they had not seen her talking to Ren.  She quickly composed her own features; she didn’t want to ruin their night by having them think Ren was harassing her over the outcome of the battle.

“I saw a ghost, all right; the ghost of the hope that we’ll get to eat at a decent hour.  If we don’t go soon you’re going to seriously regret footing the bill, Dameron,” Rey said with her wolfish grin before turning to leave the studio before either of them could get a word in.

They left the sprawling complex of the Chelsea Market where _Iron Chef America_ was filmed and walked up eight blocks to get to Ushiwakamaru.  Warm golden light was already pouring through the high, narrow front window when they arrived, and an exuberant chorus of “ _Irasshaimase!”_ greeted them as soon as Poe opened the door.  The restaurant was already full to capacity, but a smiling hostess immediately led them to three vacant seats right at the sushi counter.  

As Finn and Rey wound their way through the other patrons, a middle-aged, jovial looking Japanese man stepped out from behind the counter to intercept Poe.  Rey could only assume that that was Hideo Kuribara, the owner and executive chef of Ushiwakamaru.  The two chefs bowed respectfully to one another before pulling into a back-slapping embrace.  They talked for a few minutes as Rey and Finn settled into their seats, Rey watching them out of the corner of her eye as she re-arranged her condiment dishes and broke her chopsticks apart.  Poe gestured in her and Finn’s direction, angling his elbow upward as though to strike someone in the face with it.  Kuribara looked directly at Rey, then burst out laughing.  With one last word to Poe he returned to the sushi counter and disappeared through a door leading back to the kitchen.  Poe slid into his seat between them, still chuckling.

“What was all that about?” Finn asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“When I made reservations, Hideo-san said he bet his best sake that I’d be showing up with a black eye thanks to Ren.  Not only did I prove him wrong, but I told him that the only real punch thrown was Rey nearly taking out Hux over a box of _uni_.  He especially liked that.”

Kuribara appeared a moment later bearing a dark green bottle of sake, its label embossed with gold _kanji_ symbols.  “Katsuyama Junmai Daiginjo,” he said in thickly accented English, handing it to Poe over the counter.  “Semi-dry, but rich and fragrant.”  Then he looked at Rey, smiling at her as he passed her a tall glass of foaming beer.  “On the house.  Anyone willing to fight over good _uni_ is a good chef.”

“ _Domo arigatou,”_ Rey said gratefully as she accepted the glass from him.

“Friends, a toast,” Poe said, holding up his tiny cup of warm sake Finn had ordered as they waited.  “To a battle valiantly fought and a not-loss deservedly won.”

“Here, here!” Finn crowed, clicking his own white cup with Poe’s and Rey’s beer before drinking its content in a single swig.

Rey took a long draw from her beer, not quite able to partake in her friends’ elation.  Though her surroundings were lively, her friends buzzed on pride and love and good booze and the food exceptionally delicious, Kylo’s words continued to hand over her like a shroud, casting a shadow over what should have been one of the best nights of her life.  Even the _otoro_ she had been looking forward to seemed to dissolve in her mouth like sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hideo Kuribara is a real chef and Ushiwakamaru is his restaurant in New York City. I include him in this story with the utmost respect to him as a person, a chef, an artist, and a businessman.
> 
> Normally at this time I post a list of all the food mentioned in the chapter with links to pictures and recipes, but there is so much for this installment (not to mention how late it already is) I'm just not able to do it at the time of this chapter's posting. Instead I'm working on an in-depth Tumblr post, and will post the link here at a later date.


	11. Chapter Ten: Dolma and Spanakopita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but nonetheless important. I really wanted to get it out this weekend because next Saturday is my daughter's birthday, so I'm going to be busy all week getting ready for it.

**Chapter Ten: Dolma and Spanakopita**

“Earth to Rey.  Come in, Rey.”

Rey blinked, looking up from the tub full of black mussels at her feet.  “I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you were feeling alright,” Poe said, chucking a handful of squid guts into the sink.  “Usually you’re talking my ear off when you prep, but today you’ve barely said two words.  Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine.  I’m just wondering if I’m doomed to be de-bearding these bastards for the next six months,” she said saltily, plucking at the bristly, hair-like strands seaweed on the shellfish in her hand.  It was the second week in September, which meant it was the start of shellfish season, which in turn meant it was time for Poe’s award-winning seafood paella.  With two critically-acclaimed food magazines and three popular restaurant blogs naming his paella the best in New York City, as soon as the first shipment of mussels started rolling in BB8’s reservation books began to fill up for weeks out at a time.  And when half the orders coming into the kitchen were for Poe’s paella, it meant a lot of shrimp had to be cleaned, a lot of squid had to be broken down, and a lot, _a lot_ , of mussels had to be de-bearded.

Needless to say, paella season was not Rey’s favorite.

“Come on, Rey, throw me a bone here,” Poe sighed.  “You’ve been acting off ever since we did _Iron Chef_.  Finn’s worried, too.  He told me the other day that he feels like he hardly ever sees you anymore, and you two live together.  Did...something happen when we finished filming?”

This was not the first time that Rey got the impression that Poe somehow knew of her confrontation with Kylo Ren outside the studio dressing rooms.  He never outright asked, and she never divulged any information when he hinted at it.  Although she loved Finn and Poe with all her heart, one of the reasons why she didn’t tell them about her chat with Vader’s executive chef was because she didn’t want them to go all over-protective big brother on her.  If anything, she was pretty sure she was more apt at taking care of herself now than any other time in her life, and she hated the thought of anyone assuming otherwise, her best friends included.  She also did not want to tell them because she knew once their initial reactions wore off, both Finn and Poe would try to reassure her that she was a damn good cook and therefore she shouldn’t listen to anything Kylo Ren had to say.

The problem with that was Ren efficiently pointed out how woefully little she knew about cooking traditions and techniques outside of Poe’s kitchen.  And that knowledge made her whole being itch, like there was a hive of ants crawling beneath her skin.

The reason why Finn never saw her on the rare occasions they were home at the same time was because she was more often than not holed up in her room, researching recipes, reading blogs or watching cooking tutorials on her old laptop, taking notes as fervently as she did when she was in college.  On days when she had the apartment to herself she would spend her carefully coveted savings on a slew of pricey ingredients, many of which were new to her: Parmigiano-Reggiano and Gruyere cheese, arborio rice, bottles of cognac and port, whole ducks and tubs of pork lard, as well as making sure their refrigerator and pantry was continually stocked with onions, eggs, butter, and all the herbs she burned through.  She took the ingredients home and, while she had the kitchen to herself, prepped them all while reviewing her notes and re-watching videos.

But it seemed no matter how close she followed the instructions, nothing ever turned out right.  Her consomme was cloudy, her souffles collapsed, the rice of her risotto never wanted to cook the whole way through, and she utterly destroyed three ducks in her pitiful attempt to debone them.  It was, in short, _really_ fucking frustrating.  

To make matters worse, every failure made Kylo Ren’s words echo a little louder in her mind, though whenever they replayed they never sounded mocking or condescending.  He may not have outright said it, but Rey had no doubt the he had extended an invitation to her that day in the hallway.

 _Stupid Kylo Ren_ , _with his stupid good looks, and stupid beautiful food and stupid superiority complex,_ Rey fumed, plucking the beard off a mussel with more vehemence than was necessary.  Most importantly, _damn_ him for throwing a wrench into the contented clockwork of her life.  It wasn’t a big wrench, but it was enough to knock some gears and springs out of alignment so that things no longer ran quite as smoothly as before.

She could have told this all to Poe.  She trusted that he would give her both sagely career and life advice without overwhelming her, and reiterate that she shouldn’t worry about anything Ren said and that she’d be better off putting it from her mind.  Once she got it all off her chest, perhaps she would finally feel better and be able to put this weird episode behind her.

The problem was she didn’t know if she _wanted_ to put it behind her.  Not yet, at least.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Rey started, taking a much safer route, “when we did _Iron Chef_ , you told Kevin Brauch and the judges that I was your secret weapon.  I’ve just been wondering what you meant by that.”

Poe blew out a puff of laughter that sounded a lot like relief.  “Christ, Rey, you’ve been scaring the shit out of us over that? Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

She raised one shoulder and let it drop again.  “I wasn’t sure how to bring it up without sounding like I was accusing you of something.”  

It was a half-truth, at least: she had been curious about Poe’s remarks during the filming, but what had come to pass after had pushed them into the far corner of her mind.  Every few days she told herself that she’d finally get around to asking him, just so she could think about something else for a while, but in the end her thoughts always circled back to Kylo Ren and she’d forget all over again.

“I suppose that’s my fault,” Poe said.  “It’s something that you should have known a long time ago.  Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” he quickly amended, as though he could see her defenses going up, “it’s just that I think it’s easier if I showed you.”

Rey and Poe swiftly cleaned up and stored their prepared seafood.  Just as they were hanging up their aprons Finn walked in to start his shift.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Poe said, plucking Finn’s apron out of his hands and hanging it back up in his locker.  “Come on, we’re going to get some lunch.”

“I need to start my miguelitos…” Finn started to protest, but Poe took him firmly by the elbow and steered him toward the door.

“We won’t be long,” Poe said cheerfully.  After leaving some instructions with one of the line cooks who just arrived at his station, Poe, Rey and Finn left BB8 for whatever mystery destination Poe had in mind.

The last of the summer heat still had its claws in the tri-state area, but the shade of the trees lining the streets of Greenwich Village was refreshingly cool.  It would still be another six weeks before autumn started to change the foliage in earnest, but when Rey drew a lungful of air she could detect the faint spicy aroma that told her the change of season was close at hand.

Poe ended up taking them to a Greek restaurant nestled at the bottom corner of an apartment complex.  It was a small place, the kind that’s perfectly contented to be a local favorite rather than a tourist draw.  It’s decor was sparse: blue-and-white checkered tablecloths, a few potted plants, a picture of the Parthenon in its prime painted on one of the walls.  But it smelled wonderful, like roasting meats and fresh-baked pastry dough and a touch of oregano.

 Seeing as it was only eleven in the morning on a Thursday they had the place to themselves save for a pair of old men playing backgammon in the far corner.  A tired-looking waitress came over to greet them as they took a seat at a table against the wall with the painting.  Without even looking at the menu Poe deftly ordered a plate of _dolma_ , a slice of _spanakopita_ , and a bowl of _avgolemono_.  When he finished Poe gave the waitress one of his trademark smiles and she blushed deeply, tripping over her feet as she hustled back to the kitchen.  Under the kitchen, Finn kicked him in the shin.

Rey asked Poe again why he brought them here, but Poe insisted that they waited until the food came out.  Their waitress appeared about fifteen minutes later, laying their order before them: a savory pie of spinach and feta cheese in a filo crust, grape leaves wrapped around a filling of rice, ground meat and spices, and a bowl of thick, pale yellow soup with chunks of chicken and parsley floating on top.

“Help yourselves,” Poe said, picking up a _dolma_ and biting it in half.

Rey and Finn exchanged one more look of confusion over their boss’s strange behavior before Finn tucked in.  Rey loved Greek food, but her growing annoyance kept her from being able to fully enjoy it.  She quickly took a bite from each dish before staring Poe down again.  “Okay, spill.  Not that I’m complaining about a free meal, but would you care to finally tell me what all this is about?”

“Humor me for just a little longer,” Poe said with a knowing glint in his eye.  “What do you taste?”

Rey wanted to groan - she always hated these kind of roundabout mind games - but she complied, taking another, slower bite from each dish, allowing each flavor to roll across her tongue in turn.  She pointed her fork to the piece of _spanakopita_.

“Onion, garlic, spinach, parsley, ricotta and feta cheeses and eggs.  A small touch of dill.”

She moved onto the _dolma_.

“The meat is a combination of beef and lamb.  There’s also rice and onions in the stuffing, and it’s been seasoned with dill, a little mint, and lemon zest.  The leaves were brined with lemon juice, I think.”

She was about to go onto the _avgolemono_ \- a chicken and orzo soup thickened with eggs and flavored with lemon - when she realized Finn was staring at her with his jaw unhinged.  “What?”

“You can really pick all those flavors out from just a few bites?” he asked, astonished.

“More than that,” Poe interjected, “but I bet any amount of money that if Rey tried to make any of these dishes, she’ll be able to perfectly replicate them, right down to how much salt they have, even without the recipe.”

Rey couldn’t help but frown.  “I appreciate your faith in me, but that’s being a little generous.”

“Except that you’ve been doing it for two years,” Poe said.  “Remember your first omelette you made during my cooking seminar?  The one I said tasted like something a master chef would make?  At first I chalked it up to beginner’s luck, but when Finn told me that you perfectly recreated my tacos, I began to suspect that there was something really special going on with you.  After watching you learn and grow at an exemplary rate after coming on to BB8, I can say with the utmost confidence that you, Rey Jakken, have a perfect palette.”

“A what now?” Rey asked at the same time Finn smacked the tabletop with the palm of his hand and declared, “Of course!  It makes perfect sense!”

“What that means, Rey,” Poe continued, “is that you have a heightened sense of taste and the ability to remember literally everything you’ve ever eaten.  Think of it as a person who has perfect pitch and can accurately identify any note on the musical scale, but with flavors instead of sound.  Your brain automatically categorizes and retains everything you eat with such precision that you can recreate practically anything, even if you’ve only tried it once.  Some people, especially food critics, can train themselves to become what’s known as a supertaster, but you were born with it.  I called you my ‘secret weapon’ on _Iron Chef_ because you would remember everything we practiced before going on, and because you would ensure that our food would taste the best it possibly could.”

A dozen questions raced through Rey’s mind, but she ended up settling on the one that probably should have been saved for later.  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked, sounding more morose than she intended.

Poe actually winced.  “I’m sorry, hon, I really am.  At first the reason was because I wanted you to come into your own just based on what you learned and how you applied it.  I thought I was saving you from becoming that arrogant little shit no one would want to work with.  I did mean to tell you sooner than now, but…” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.  “Well, I got selfish.  It’s so hard to find someone who’s reliable and consistently good at their job.  I didn’t want to risk losing you to someone else so soon.  But after the Chairman told you and Finn that he’d love to have you back as challengers, I knew that I couldn’t keep your own talent from you any more.

“I don’t blame you if you’re mad with me, so let me say just one more thing on the subject: I _want_ to see you succeed, Rey.  Even without your superior palette you already have everything it takes to someday opening your own restaurant.  With it you have the potential to become one of the best chefs in New York.  Maybe even further than that.”  He offered her a smile, small and apologetic.  “Just so long as you don’t go taking my secret recipes, yeah?”

Rey felt her throat tighten and the back of her eyes burn with unexpected emotion.  “If you hadn’t been honest with me right now, then yeah, I’d probably be a little upset.  But since you were… No, I’m not mad.”  She reached across the table to take his hand, giving him a smile of her own in return.  “Besides, it may have been better that you did wait until now, otherwise I wouldn’t have believed you when you said I was special.”

“You _are_ special, Rey,” Finn implored, adding his own hand to theirs and giving a firm squeeze.  “Even if you just had a regular palette, you’d still be special.  We just wish that someday you’ll be able to see that about yourself.”

* * *

 

The next day, Rey made her decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of Kylo in this chapter. It was going to be longer - in fact, chapters 9, 10, and 11 were supposed to be all one installment - but this seemed like a good stopping point.
> 
> Despite the fact that I didn't get to write Kylo in this chapter, I'm super happy with how it came out. Earlier on in the story I felt like I wrote myself into a plot hole when Poe mentioned Rey being a "secret weapon" and panicked for a bit on how I was going to resolve it without contradicting anything I wrote before, but it served as a reminder to myself that all you need to do is just keep writing. Everything will eventually work itself out (even if it still feels like a cheap plot point.)
> 
> Supertasters are real, though I’ve obviously taken a lot more liberty with Rey’s ability than how they are in real life. From what I understand, it really limits what what they do and don't like eating, as they don’t care for bitter flavors, foods with high fat content, carbonated beverages, etc. For the sake of this story, Rey has more of a photographic memory, though with her sense of taste rather than sight or sound.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Mushrooms and Croissants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter as a thanks for everyone's patience

**Chapter Eleven: Mushrooms and Croissants**

Rey did not care for Fifth Avenue.

Like many new arrivals to New York City, Times Square had been one of the fist iconic landmarks Rey went to see after she got settled in her new living arrangements.  She had just turned eighteen, free from the system and out from under Unkar Plutt’s fat thumb, and it seemed only right to see One Times Square for herself, that its massive LED displays and forest of Broadway billboards, would cement the reality that she was actually there, that she had finally made it.

However, it was not long before the blaring horns and haze of exhaust fumes from the countless vehicles and taxis, the blazing advertisements for products she could never afford, and the endless crush of businessmen and roving tourists completely overwhelmed her.  Ever since that day she stuck close to the NYU campus or to the Village, and other than when she went to see  _ Book of Mormon _ with Finn and Poe last year for Poe’s birthday, Rey avoided Fifth whenever she could.

It was the task at hand today that brought her back, staring up at the steel and black glass monolith looming high above her.  The headquarters of the First Order, Giacovanni Snoke’s empire, looked like a colossal obelisk, dominating that stretch of New York skyline.  Perhaps it was just the adrenaline dancing in her veins, but Rey could almost feel a sort of nexus of energy pulsing from the edifice, commanding respect and fear in equal measures and casting a shroud over the city’s otherwise vibrant heart.  It was a stark reminder of what she was going up against, but she tempered her resolve.  If she could put a bunch of sneering high school boys from her autoshop class in their place by changing out a pair of brake pads in half the time they could, she could handle this.

The main foyer of the First Order headquarters was all white marble tile, chrome accenting, and black granite pillars supporting a ceiling that stretched forty dizzying feet over her head.  A lone reception desk sprawled at the far end, and an intimidating-looking security guard stoof sentry between a length of velvet rope and a line of gleaming elevator doors.  Although there was a steady stream of people trickling to and from the elevators, an oppressive silence filled the foyer like a palapital force, making her ears ache.  She may not know much about Snoke other than what she heard from other chefs, but standing in the foyer made one thing abundantly clear, as if the building had a voice and was speaking directly to her:  _ you are in my domain, now.  The rules of the outside world need not apply. _

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” Rey said to herself, earning a curious look from a woman in a pantsuit who passed by within hearing range.  Shoulders squared and head held high, Rey marched over to the reception desk to join the short line qued behind it.

“Good morning.  Please state your name and manner of business here at First Order,” the receptionist said in a tone that was equal parts professional and bored as Rey stepped up to the desk.

“Rey Jakken,” she responded, obediently handing over her ID when he asked for it.  “I would like to send a message to Chef Kylo Ren.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Rey shook her head.  “I don’t want to actually see him: I just want to get a message to him.  Whether he responds or not is his decision.”

“Very well.  Just make sure it’s brief.”  The receptionist fiddled with his computer mouse and keyboard for a moment.  Behind her, a man in an expensive suit heaved a sigh.  “Your message?”

Rey took a deep breath.  “Let him know that I’ve reconsidered his proposition.  He can contact me here.” She pulled a three-by-five card from her purse and handed it to the receptionist.  Her name and email address was printed on one side.  She had decided against adding her cell phone number; she did not want to give him the power to contact her whenever he wanted.  The receptionist typed on his computer for another full minute before asking her if he could help her with anything else.

“No.  Thank you very much,” Rey said, her fingers trembling slightly as she replaced her ID in her wallet.  Though the whole exchange had taken less than five minutes, by the time she walked away from the reception desk her legs were shaking so badly she was surprised she was able to stand at all.  A part of her wanted to fly back to the desk, shoving aside anyone in her way so she could tell the man there to disregard her message, to do whatever he could to delete it while she took her card back and ripped it up into a hundred pieces.  But she forced herself to walk on, keeping her eyes fixed on the large revolving door that would take her back out to the street.  

This warring of emotions - the mad urge to take back the proverbial die she cast clashing with a steely determination to push forward - was not an unknown feeling to her.  She had experienced it when she submitted her application to NYU; when she bought a bus ticket  to escape from Unkar Plutt once and for all; when she answered Finn’s ad for a roommate; on her first day flying solo as BB8’s new prep cook.  Each event carried its own classification of stress, sometimes to the point where the anxiety made her sick to her stomach, but each one ended up being one of the most rewarding decisions she ever made.  Rey felt her mood perk up a bit.  Who knew, maybe the events that stemmed from today would turn out the same.

Rey was almost to the revolving doors when something caught her attention: two sets of additional elevator doors she had not noticed until now, near the front of the building’s foyer.  Ropes of burgundy velvet, hung with a plague that read “no entry,” barred people from getting too close to the steel doors, and a reception station stood to one side, a woman in a smart black uniform typing busily away at a flat screen computer.  Rey went over to have a look, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but reservations for Vader are full for tonight,” the hostess said crisply.  “The head chef recommends that to guarantee a table, please plan on reserving a table at a minimum of six weeks out.  Availability is subject to change at any time.”

Christ, did his arrogance know no bounds?

“I would just like to see the menu, if that’s all right.”

The hostess gestured to a frame mounted to the black marble wall and went back to her typing, Rey completely forgotten.

Kylo Ren’s menu boasted some of the usual crowd pleasers such as escargot and a foie gras appetizer, oysters on the half shell, filet mignon and lobster, but that was where the similarities to any other restaurant ended.  His unique style was infused into every item, promising a dining experience of unprecedented levels:  Chinese-style  _ dim sum _ with abalone and topped with caviar; charcoal grilled wagyu ribeye with a red wine and bone marrow sauce; Chilean sea bass poached in French butter; a dark chocolate cake with a molten core of Tahitian vanilla and cognac syrup.  The devil himself could not have come up with a menu more exquisitely sinful.  Rey was only halfway through reading the menu before she realized how much her mouth was watering, and how imagining how each item tasted ignited a slow-burning fire deep in her belly.

She had to make herself leave then, before guilt and her nerves once more compelled her to doubt her decision to come here.

_ He might not even return my message.  I probably missed my window of opportunity the first time I turned him down _ , Rey thought as she stepped back into the noise and rush of Fifth Avenue.  She couldn’t see Ren being the type who gave second chances, nor to possess the patience to wait for a smartass rookie to change her mind.  In all likelihood, all this stress would be for naught, and the only thing she’s ever see of Kylo Ren again was in magazines and on social media.

* * *

 

Two days later, he proved her wrong.

* * *

 

Rey was in the middle of prepping a simple mushroom soup for lunch when her phone  _ pinged _ to inform her she had a new email.  She looked up from her growing pile of chopped shiitake, chanterelles, porcini and oyster mushrooms (pricey, yes, but when it came to making mushroom soup regular white buttons just didn’t cut it), wiped her hands off and picked up her phone.

It took her a full thirty seconds to process what she was reading.  Then she set her phone down, took a swig from the bottle of wine meant for the soup, and picked it up again.  The message was still there, unchanged.

 

Sender : Kylo Ren

Subject : Your Apprenticeship

 

Rey put down her phone for a second time, then set about scooping her mushrooms into a bowl and put them away along with all the other ingredients.  No matter what his email said, she already knew that she was going to have zero appetite by the time she was done reading it.  The only thing she kept out was the wine, which she took to the living room with her.  She made herself sit down on the couch with her laptop, took another pull of wine for fortitude, and opened his message.

_ Ms. Jakken: _

_ I am pleased to hear that you have finally decided to put your pride aside in order to further your career.  That being said, I feel that I should warn you that I have no interest in moving forward unless you’re willing to be fully committed in return.  I have rejected requests to apprentice top graduates from the most renowned culinary institutes around the world, as well as a number of James Beard Foundation nominees and winners, so this is something I do not offer lightly.  Baring that in mind, you’ll understand that my standards and expectations are exceedingly high, and if at any time I feel that you are not meeting them I will terminate your apprenticeship immediately. _

_ If you still believe you are up to the task, contact me at this email address within 48 hours so we can establish the details of your first lesson. _

_ K. Ren _

Rey was halfway through writing a scathing response when she realized what she was doing and forced herself to stop.  With great effort she stood up from the couch and walked away from her computer, gripping the wine bottle so hard that she was surprised the neck didn’t shatter in her hand.  

In retrospect, she didn’t know why his email enraged her like it did; she knew he was an arrogant asshole from the start, so she should have expected the condescending nature of his response.  He was one of the top chefs in the world, and she was a nobody.  However, even with knowing all that his email still managed to thoroughly rankle her, each sentence causing red to bleed into the edges of her vision.  It almost felt like he was intentionally trying to piss her off, his every word hitting a nerve like an acupuncture needle.

One thing was for certain, and that was she needed a clearer head before she decided if she was going to accept his offer or tell him to piss off.  Luckily, work promised to provide the distraction she needed.  There was a music festival happening in Washington Square that weekend, which meant that the Village would be crawling with people looking for a quick bite to eat.  During such events, Poe liked to open BB8’s lounge so it operated more like a tapas bar found in Barcelona or San Sebastián, where patrons were encouraged to indulge in the little appetizers as much as they wanted just so long as they had a drink in their hand.  For the past year Poe put Rey in charge of making sure the tapas were always replenished.  It was intense work, especially when stacked on top of all her other duties, but she welcomed the challenge.  The fact that Snap always split a portion of his tips with her was a nice little bonus as well.  Maybe chopping fish for ceviche and slicing vegetables to ribbons was just the outlet she needed.  If she decided to take his offer then maybe she’d be less inclined to pull a knife on him the first time his ego manifested.

But she made herself no promises.

\---

Katy Perry’s “Roar” was reverberating off the steam-streaked bathroom walls when Rey suddenly realized why Ren’s email hit such a nerve.

Rey quickly finished rinsing out her hair, shut the water off and made a mad dash out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing more than her towel.  Finn and Poe jumped up from their reclined positions on the couch at her sudden and partially-clothed appearance, hair still dripping as she grabbed up her laptop from where it was charging on the end table.

“Jesus, Rey, are you okay?” Finn asked, pausing their current episode of  _ Orange is the New Black _ .  “The last time I saw you move that fast was the Shrimp Incident.”

Rey pulled a face.  The now-famous “Shrimp Incident” that originated when a line chef dropped a partially-thawed prawn down Rey’s back and she chased him around the kitchen with a meat tenderizer was now a favorite story among the Village chefs.  Even her friends enjoyed bringing it up whenever they could.  “It was cold and disgusting and Tio got exactly what he deserved for it.”

“Is everything okay?” Poe asked.

“Yes, fine.  This clothing store I like is having an online firesale and I forgot today was the last day.”

“Must be a damn good sale then,” Finn said as he lay back on the couch, pulling Poe down to recline against his chest as they resumed watching their show.  Breathing a silent sigh of relief that they bought her story, Rey unplugged her laptop from its charger and took it to her room.

Perched on the end of her bed, Rey opened her laptop, clicked on her email server icon and read Ren’s email again, scrutinizing each sentence as she went.  A second read-through confirmed that she wasn’t imagining things: Kylo Ren was challenging her.  Each snide comment, each insinuation that she would somehow fail to meet his standards had garnered the exact reaction she was sure he was aiming for: a sudden burning desire to prove him wrong.  She knew she should have been outraged that he managed to play her like that, but the emotion would not manifest.

Now the question was, where did she go from here?

Poe said she had the potential to become a great chef in her own right.  Wouldn’t that mean taking advantage of whatever means were available to her to achieve it?  But before that was to happen, though, she felt it was within her rights to lay down a few ground rules of her own…

Before she lost her nerve, Rey hit the “reply” button and began to type.

* * *

 

Rey pushed the cloud of foam topping her hazelnut latte to one side of her mug with her spoon, then back to the other, turning the creamy fluff into a muddy slurry.  Her hand twitched toward her phone, but she quickly pulled it back to tug at the bill of her baseball cap instead.  She knew she was must have looked ridiculous, sitting in this seedy little coffee shop in one of Finn’s old jackets and a well-worn Mets hat like she was some undercover agent about to turn over viable information to enemy hands.  In a way, that was exactly what she felt like she was getting ready to do.

Her email back to Kylo Ren had been painstakingly composed, each word carefully chosen as to not betray how much turmoil he caused her, as well as to not give him any more fodder to use in his favor.  Simply stated, Rey told him that there would be no first lesson until he heard and accepted her own term of conditions, which would take place face-to-face at a third party location well away from both the Village and the First Order headquarters.

His answer was waiting for her when her shift ended that night.  She expected a brusque “my way or the highway” kind of response, that there was no reason to move forward if she did not agree to his terms right then and there.  Instead, Ren provided a short list of dates and times he was available and asked her to choose which one worked best for her.  The only thing he requested was that he be the one to choose the place of their meeting, though he assured her it would be well away from both their places of employment.  Caught off guard by the polite tone of his email and this unexpected turn of events, Rey selected the following Monday at eleven AM.

Rey was even more surprised by the location.  She was certain he would have chosen some ritzy bistro in SoHo or TriBeCa, but at 10:45 she found herself standing in front of an unassuming coffee shop in a neighborhood well removed from the beaten tourist path.  The interior was in desperate need of an update: the sea-green formica countertops clashed with the faded and warped laminate floors, and no two tables and set of chairs were the same.  The corner of the pastry case was bisected by a nasty crack.  Rey personally loved places like this.  It had a well-established, homey feel, and the scent of fresh-ground coffee warming the air made it all the more inviting.  It was also the kind of place she assumed Kylo Ren wouldn’t be caught dead in, and she had to double-check his last email to make sure she got the address right.

All at once her previous misgivings began to well up again.  Was she being set up for some kind of sick joke?  She quickly pushed the thought aside.  Ren may have been a lot of things, but she couldn’t imagine him stooping to that level.  Instead, Rey ordered a latte and settled into a cracked vinyl booth to wait.

Eleven o’clock came and went.  At first Rey was not too put-off - punctuality in the City was a hard thing to come by, especially on a Monday morning - but when the clock hit 11:15 she was starting to get antsy.  She didn’t have any new emails from him saying he was running late or he needed to cancel; their brief email exchange gave her the impression that he wouldn’t just stand her up.  That did not stop her from constantly checking her phone and growing increasingly annoyed when she saw only a few minutes passed since she last looked at the time.  She decided to give him until 11:30, and if he didn’t show then she’s put this whole thing behind her and move on with her life.  At least that way she could stop imagining the looks of shock and betrayal on Finn and Poe’s face if they ever found out what she tried to do.

“Though I understand your desire for discretion, I think you might be taking it a little over the top.”

Milk and espresso sloshed over the side of Rey’s mug as she jumped, then cursed at the resulting mess that spread across the table.  “You need to start wearing a goddamn bell or something,” she grumbled, attempting to wipe up the remains of her latte with a wad of napkins.

Ren chuckled, a sound that originated deep within his chest as he set down his own mug and a plate well away from the spill.  “My apologies.  Just a moment,” he said before walking away again.  Rey was swiping the soiled napkins into the trash when Ren reappeared with a damp washcloth.  Rey expected him to hand it to her, but instead he cleaned up the remaining coffee himself.

“Some habits die hard,” he said by way of explanation.  With the mess efficiently taken care of, Rey returned to her seat, Ren sitting opposite of her.  She declined his offer for a replacement drink; evidently she already had enough caffeine today.

“As I was saying,” Ren continued as though nothing had happened, “you don’t have to worry about anyone seeing you here with me.  Celebrity chefs don’t have the same paparazzi draw as actors and musicians.  Besides, I’ve been coming here long before Vader opened and no one but the locals ever come here.  And if someone does happen to come up to bother us, Heather will chase them away, so you can relax.”

“I...appreciate that,” Rey said slowly, glancing at her surroundings again.

Ren must have read the skepticism on her face because he cocked an eyebrow at her.  “I’m assuming you thought you were at the wrong location because a place like this would be too far below me?”

The back of Rey’s neck became uncomfortably hot beneath the thick collar of Finn’s jacket.  She tried to convince herself it was because she was embarrassed that he called her out on her shallow assumption, and not because of the fleeting twinkle in his dark eyes or the slight upward curve of his full lips.  “Seems like something a five-star chef might think,” she responded, and instantly regretted it.  So far he had been nothing but civil to her, which she was admittedly not been prepared for, so of course she had to open her mouth and muck it up.

“That’s to be expected, I suppose,” Ren said, pulling his plate toward him.  “And it might be true if Heather didn’t make the best croissants in the City.”

For for first time since he arrived at her table Rey noticed the fat, golden brown croissant sitting on his plate, accompanied by a small ramekin of whipped butter.  Rey watched, entranced, as he tore off one end of the croissant with his long fingers, exposing fluffy layers of pastry still steaming from the oven.  Ren smeared a pat of butter over it, then, to her astonishment, proffered it to her.  “My first piece of advice: keep all your favorite places to yourself.  Otherwise the self-proclaimed  _ foodies _ -” he said the word as though it was an insult - “will overrun it and you’ll never get close again.”

Rey plucked the piece of croissant out of his fingers and popped it into her mouth.  The pastry immediately melted over her tongue, its texture delicate but unbelievably butter-rich, its interior almost creamy.  Rey’s eyes involuntarily rolled back, a reaction that felt downright vulgar with Ren watching her.  She quickly covered her mouth with her hand, hoping to hide the way she could feel her face flushing under his gaze.

“To be honest, I didn’t think you’d agree to meet at all,” she said, hoping to divert his attention.  “Your first email made everything sound pretty final.”

“Anything can be adjusted until the moment a plate leaves the kitchen,” Ren replied, applying more butter to his pastry.

Rey smirked.  “Are you going to talk only in food metaphors this whole time?”

“Call it a side effect of my childhood.  Food columnist and critic for a mother, traveling TV personality for a father, eccentric yet revolutionary chef for an uncle.  My mother always said I may as well have been born with a chef’s knife in my hand.”

“Good thing you weren’t.  Your poor mother.”

So Kylo Ren wasn’t just a talented chef: he was a goddamn child prodigy.  Rey itched to ask him more about his family, but his eyes suddenly hardened, like ice forming over dark pools of water.  Even though he was the one who brought them up, Rey decided it was best to let the subject drop.  That was not why they were here, anyway.

“Just so we’re clear, me being here does not mean I’m agreeing to your offer.”  Rey kept her tone neutral, maintaining a fine line between holding her ground while not sounding overly assertive.

“And just because I said I’d hear your conditions doesn’t mean that I will agree to them,” Ren said cooly.

“Okay, then.”  Rey took a deep breath.  “First and foremost, I want this to be completely off the books.   _ Especially _ from Snoke.”

“Like I said before, Snoke only noticed those worthy of his attention.”

“But I got  _ your _ attention, didn’t I?  You said yourself that you’ve refused to tutor chefs with James Beard credentials.  Your restaurant is located at the epicenter of Snoke’s business empire.  So if you noticed me,  _ he’ll _ notice, and I’m telling you now:  _ I don’t want to be noticed, _ by Snoke or anyone else.”

“That’s not unreasonable.”  Ren’s tone implied he had expected that particular request.

“Second: my job at BB8 comes first.  I’m typically off Mondays and Tuesdays, so whatever you have in mind is going to have to revolve around that.  So if you suddenly get a wild hair and decide that I need to learn how to make a duck liver terrine or some other fancy French dish on a Friday night I won’t even dignify you with a response.  The same goes for Finn and Poe.  They’re my best friends, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.”

“Again, that’s to be expected,” Ren said, taking a bite if his croissant (Rey had to remind herself not to stare).  “But now I get to present an ultimatum of my own.”

Rey blinked, her heart doing a weird little skip behind her ribs, her anxiety spiking in her chest before she reminded herself that she was still not obligated to agree to any of this.  It actually disappointed her a little that this might be the deal breaker, especially how unexpectedly well their meeting was going so far.  “Okay.  I mean, that’s only fair.”

“The lessons are to take place at my penthouse.”

If Rey’s heart skipped before, now it tripped and landed flat on its face.  “What?”

“It’s the only logical location.” Ren said, thankfully not reacting to the way the color must have drained from her face.  “I could swear my staff to secrecy in order to use Vader’s kitchen, but I’m not keen on the prospect of wasting my time while you’re constantly looking over your shoulder.  Asking another chef to use their kitchen is out of the question, and I’m sure you don’t want anyone in your building curious about me making regular visits to your apartment.”

Rey blanched.  Never mind the neighbors, what would it look like to Finn, coming home one day to find Kylo Ren standing in his kitchen?  The thought alone was enough to make her feel sick.  She racked her brains for reasons to refuse, for her instincts to scream what a bad idea this was at her, but surprisingly she came up with nothing.  She had more than enough self-defense knowledge and street smarts to look out for herself, so unless Ren turned out to be a real life Hannibal Lecter she shouldn’t have to a reason to worry.  But to be alone with Kylo Ren in his home… The thought gave her a thrill of nervous anticipation without an accompanying feeling of dread.  Considering that it was trusting her instincts that got her this far in life, it would be dumb to ignore them now.

“Okay.  Your place it is.”

“That’s all I had to add.  Do you have anything else?”

Again, Rey took a moment to go over her mental checklist to make sure all her bases were covered.  Other than the unforeseen arrangement of the lessons’ location, everything worked out in her favor, which was certainly not the outcome she was expecting today.  There was, however, one final detail she needed to address before they reached an accord.  Although Ren had been civil during their meeting, she had not forgotten the condescending tone that laced that first email and ultimately spurred her into action.  Even now the memory of it gave her a surge of boldness.

“Just one last thing.  Don’t ever underestimate me.”

Kylo Ren smirked, the expression sending an electric tingle down her spine.  “I wouldn’t dare even for a moment, Miss Jakken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know you hit true Slow Burn status when your story hits 41,000 words before your OTP has their first true face-to-face conversation.
> 
> Many thanks to my friend sleepyowlet who helped me work through the tougher parts of this chapter. At first I was worried that Ren sounded too passive with Rey during their interview, but then I remember the interrogation scene from the movie and it made me feel more confident.
> 
> I probably won't be able to work much on the next installment until November as my October is pretty solidly booked, but hopefully it will give me time to think up something really good for Rey's first lesson with Kylo Ren.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Malbec and Bucatini all’Amatriciana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: See Omega attempt to write sexual tension.
> 
> Additional warnings: Rey has memories of when Plutt was a disgusting bastard to her when she was a minor.

** Chapter Twelve: Malbec and _Bucatini all’Amatriciana_ **

In the end Rey decided to buy the wine.

It was a stupid thing to get her panties in a wad over, but in retrospect she supposed it was only a matter of time before her anxiety manifested in some form or fashion.  It certainly didn’t happen when she reported to her first shift after her meeting with Ren, where she churned out dozens of  _ croquetas de jamon _ and her  _ caldo gallego  _ which was becoming exponentially popular as the weather got colder.  When she discussed the nightly specials with Poe she did so without imagining him handing her her last paycheck.  When she and Finn started the new season of  _ American Horror Story _ and debated what that year’s group Halloween costumes should be (Finn wanted Ghostbusters, Rey wanted the Crazy 88s from  _ Kill Bill _ ) she did so without feeling sick with guilt.  Even when her phone’s calendar popped up with a reminder that her first lesson was on that upcoming Monday at five o’clock she felt remarkably calm.  In fact, had it not been for their string of emails she could almost believe that her whole correspondence with Kylo Ren took place inside her head.

It remained that way until she was halfway to his building and found herself standing in front of a corner liquor store in a strange sense of contemplation.  One of the last questions Rey asked Kylo was what she needed to bring for her first lesson.

“Only your knives,” Ren answered as he finished off his croissant.  A tiny piece of pastry clung to the corner of his lip, which he hastily brushed away with the pad of his thumb.  Rey realized she was staring and quickly averted her eyes.  He must have noticed because the same corner quirked up the smallest of fractions, which reignited her blush anew.  “I’m a stoic believer that chefs should always use their own knives when they can.  Unknown blades leads to shoddy knifework more often than not.”

Rey was oddly perplexed by his answer.  “Are you sure?  I really don’t mind picking up some basic ingredients on my way over.”

Ren waved her offer away as though it was a bothersome fly.  “There’s no need for that.  I have everything we’ll need at my apartment.  I also don’t want you showing up with any preconceived notions of what we’ll be making.  I prefer teaching from the ground up.”

Rey spent the a good portion of that afternoon wondering what the home kitchen of a chef of Ren’s caliber was like.  It was not hard to imagine a pantry full of items like gold-seal balsamic vinegar, stacked jars of beluga caviar and virtually every spice known to mankind and a refrigerator stocked with prime wagyu ribeyes and tubs of  _ creme fraise.   _ Surely he didn’t eat the same way he cooked at Vader and on  _ Iron Chef  _ at home, or he wouldn’t have his lean, athletic build (that she certainly had  _ not _ been admiring, thank you very much), but if he didn’t mind using his personal inventory who was she to argue?

Still, she felt strange going over to someone’s home empty handed.  She might have grown up poor, but she didn’t grow up without manners.  Bringing something to drink seemed simple and reasonable enough, but now as she stood before the store’s meager wine selection she felt her heart rate begin to increase and the palms of her hands grow slick with sweat.  At first she attributed it to stepping out of the chilly late afternoon air and into the overly warm store, but as her eyes roved over the rows of chardonnay, sauvignon blanc, zinfandels and cabernets, she was finally forced to acknowledge the feeling for the panic attack that it was.

Shit.   _ Shit. _  This was really happening.  She was less than half an hour away from being privately tutored by a chef with five stars and at least a dozen James Beard Foundation awards under his belt, not to mention the innumerable other awards and recognitions from food critics, restaurant reviewers, and just about every form of printed media that covered every aspect of contemporary culture and the culinary scene.  And what was she?  A prep cook with two year’s experience and no prior education or background in the restaurant business who only got this far because of a lucky break, a sophisticated palate and the ability to learn quickly with asking minimum questions.

“Don’t even bother, kid,” Unkar Plutt grunted one day when he saw the stacks of college applications and brochures on the scarred kitchen table at his house.  Normally Rey was careful about keeping them hidden to avoid this exact type of confrontation, but Plutt was off work unexpectedly early that day, the reek of cheap alcohol already prevalent beneath the ever-present stench of diesel fuel and cooking grease.  “Those damn schools need to stop spoon-feeding you kids these delusions that a piece of paper that cost fifty grand only gets you jack shit and the system only exists to screw people over.  You want some quality advice?  Go out and get a job like the rest of us sorry fuckers.  Or if you’re looking for a real easy ride just have someone knock you up and collect welfare for the next eighteen years.  I’m sure even you can find someone desperate enough to help you with that.”

Rage had rose in Rey’s throat in acidic waves, but she made herself remain silent; she still had the bruises on her arm from the last time she backtalked him.  She loathed the tears that rolled down her face when she was in bed that night, but they helped temper her resolve and made her more determined than ever to prove him wrong.

It was exactly that brash line of thinking that put her where she was now.  Ren had challenged her and she had stepped up to it for no other reason than to defend her pride.  What if this time she was truly in over her head?  What if the only thing that came from all this was her becoming the butt of a joke between Ren and all his celebrity chef friends?

Rey turned over the bottle of malbec in her hands.  Alamos was a good wine - one of her favorites, in fact - but it would only cost her a whopping twelve dollars.  She was certain that Ren had a custom-made wine closet in his apartment full of the best wines France, Italy, and California had to offer.  Would he scoff at her attempt at being a decent houseguest? If that happened she already knew she’d flee from pure embarrassment and pray that she’d never have the misfortune of seeing him ever again.

The thought gave her pause.  A few weeks ago the Ren she thought she’s knew would have regarded anything she did with open contempt.  But now?  The image that she had previously build of him - which she admitted was largely based on the perceptions of others - was beginning to crack and fall away.  The man she had met in the coffee shop who shared his croissant with her was not the same one that the other Village chefs jeered about over drinks, nor was he the force of nature on the set of  _ Iron Chef America _ .

So now what she wanted to know was, which version of Kylo Ren was real, and how did it compare to the one she thought of at night?

Rey took the bottle of wine up to the cashier before she could change her mind.

* * *

 

Kylo Ren did not live in the gilded opulence of The Plaza, nor did he have a sweeping panoramic view of Central Park from 15 Park West.  With that being said, the Walker Tower was certainly nothing to sneeze at.  Built in 1929 by Ralph Thomas Walker in New York’s Chelsea neighborhood, the building embodied all the defining characteristics of art deco architecture: bold but aesthetically pleasing angles, handsome brick facade, and the geometric and organic ornamentation that the art style was so revered for.  The last of the wan September afternoon light reflected off the leaded glass panes that made up the front entrance, making it glow gold.  

The doorman attending the Tower’s entrance - a middle-aged gentleman with a steel-gray moustache - regarded Rey as she approached.  She could only imagine what he thought of her in her faded jeans and sweater that had seen one too many washes, her face partially obscured by a too-large scarf and ratty tote hanging off one shoulder.  It was especially hard to not feel self-conscious when he looked away from her to tip his hat to a businessman entering the building whose suit probably cost more than what she made in the month.

_ Several months _ , she amended with a touch of bitterness.

Rey could hear the echo of Plutt’s sneering voice in her head, taunting her that she was way out of her league.  Her hands tightened on the neck of the wine bottle, imagining it being his fat neck as she strode forward, her chin tilted up.  Per Ren’s instructions, Rey told the doorman her name and whom she was there to see.  She expected the same chilly reception she received at the First Order headquarters, but instead the doorman beamed at her, his blue eyes warming.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive, Miss Jakken.  Go right on up.  I’ll inform Mr. Ren that you are on your way.” He opened the door for her, bowing a bit as she crossed the threshold.

Stepping into the Walker Tower’s lobby was like taking a step back in time.  Black marble floors and pillars made the ivory-colored crown moulding and the panes of crystal-bright glass in their latticework of stainless steel practically glow in comparison.  Rey could easily imagine how this place must have looked like in its hayday, when women in elegant evening gowns and men in black tie finery passed through this very same lobby on their way out to the theater or to a prestigious party.

_ Maybe we can do 30s mobsters for Halloween _ , Rey thought idly as she stepped into one of the elevators.

Ren lived in the upper floors of the Tower, nearly twenty stories above 18th street.  After checking and re-checking his apartment number, she found herself standing outside his door.  Her heart was in her throat, but her feet remained blessedly planted to the ground.

Perhaps a little too much so.  Five minutes later, she was still standing there, her arm firmly pinned to her side.

_ Oh for pete’s sake, Jakken, just get it over with! _  She finally brought her hand up to knock.

In the instant before Rey’s hand come in contact with the door it suddenly swung open.  Instead of rapping with enough force to be heard through the thick wood, Rey ended up punching Kylo Ren in the shoulder.  Hard.

She also discovered, at that exact moment, that there truly was no God, because if there was They would have been merciful and struck her down where she stood to save her from her own embarrassment.

Luckily, punching Kylo Ren was about as effective as punching a tree (her hand would attest to that the next morning); the only reaction she got from him was a cocked eyebrow.

“I know I don’t have the most admirable reputation, but I thought it’d at least be a little later in the evening before you started lashing out at me.”

Rey’s face burned with such intensity it was a wonder that her hair didn’t ignite.  “I… It’s not like I did it on purpose!  You’re the one who just...just opened the door without making sure someone wasn’t on the other side…!”

“Miss Jakken.”

The sound of him saying her name cut her off mid-ramble.  When she dared to look up at him, she saw that a corner of his mouth was quirked up ever so slightly.

“I was only joking.  Since I know it doesn’t take ten minutes to travel from the lobby to my front door I was starting to think you had some last-minute second thoughts.”

_ Ah. _  She had no idea she was standing at his door for  _ that _ long before getting up the courage to finally knock.

“Nope, definitely not,” Rey said, perhaps a touch too fast.  “Not a single second thought in my head, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

A palpable silence stretched between them as they continued to stare at each other over the threshold of his apartment, growing increasingly awkward with each passing second.  Almost a full minute elapsed before Rey realized that Ren was just as much waiting for her to say something as she was for him.

“Won’t you come in?” he finally asked.

“Yes of course thank you,” Rey said all in the same breath, barely giving Ren the chance to get out of her way as she barreled past him and into his apartment.

_ So this is what twenty million gets you in New York City _ , Rey thought with a touch of bemusement as she stepped into Ren’s main living area.  Her and Finn’s entire apartment could have easily fit in Ren’s living room and kitchen, which felt even bigger by the line of floor-to-ceiling windows across two of the walls and its high ceiling.  While Rey would have preferred an apartment that overlooked Central Park, Ren’s panoramic view of the New York skyscrapers already glittering in the purpling twilight was nothing short of breathtaking.  His pension for black, white, and chrome-themed interior decoration evidently extended beyond Vader’s dining area, but in his home it came off as being much softer and not nearly as cold: the epitome of a high-end bachelor pad.  A handsome black leather sofas and loveseat set, separated by cut glass end tables, circled a modern gas fireplace made of steel and glass.  Gray rugs with modest geometric patterns covered the majority of the dark wood flooring, and a cursory glance at one of his three bookshelves showed Ren mostly read biographies and nonfiction of a wide variety of subjects.  There was no TV, but a buffet table set between two of the bookshelves boasted a top-of-the-line Bose speaker system and the largest collection of CDs Rey had ever seen outside of a record store.  It was all very classy, but it also felt very lonely.

Deciding that she had gawked at his home long enough, she turned toward the only reason why she was there: his kitchen.

Of course, Ren’s private kitchen was the most beautiful she had ever seen, with its dark wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and black granite countertops that sparkled with flecks of embedded quartz.  The only thing that suggested that it was no ordinary kitchen was the massive gas range stove and oven unit that dominated the far wall, every inch the same beast used in New York’s best restaurants.  

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” Ren said, every bit the formal host.  Then he said in a tone that was caught somewhere between a question and a statement, “You brought wine.”

Until that instant, Rey had completely forgotten about the wine.  Had she not, she might have tried to wrap it in her scarf as discreetly as possible and left it with her shoulder bag, but instead she had carelessly set it down in full view on the corner of his extended dining table.

“I did,” Rey said, once again fighting the urge to bolt.  “But only as a preemptive ‘thank you for the lessons and for letting me make a mess of your gorgeous kitchen.’  And I’m not technically going against your instructions of bringing anything except for my knives because this isn’t an ingredient, and if it is it’s only coincidence that I chose it.  And even though this malbec is popular at BB8 it’s nowhere near fancy enough to be a date wine, so it’s much better to share between acquaintances and coworkers and not necessarily as friends…”

_ Oh my god Rey, stop talking, stop talking, stop talking right now…! _

She cleared her throat, which had become painfully dry during her mindless rambling.  The fine grain of the tabletop suddenly became the most interesting thing in the entire room, and Rey studied it with interest as she said, much more softly, “Besides, Alamos is from California.  It’s not even true Argentinian malbec.”

“What difference does that make?  It you enjoy it, and it’s something you feel is worth sharing, then that’s all that should matter.”

It was the gentle chime of glass on wood that at last coaxed Rey to look back up when the unexpectedly gentle tone of Ren’s voice did not.  He stood a little ways down from her at the dining table with two large bellied wine glasses at his elbow and a corkscrew in one hand.  He wordlessly held out his other hand and Rey handed the wine over to him.

With expert precision, Ren cut off the foil covering the top of the bottle before shoving the twisted metal screw into the cork.  Rey didn’t even bother to hide how she watched how the muscles in his exposed arms corded as he worked the cork free, the fabric of his button-down shirt taught over his shoulders. She also noticed for the first time that the top two buttons of his shirt below the collar were undone, revealing a swatch of pale skin of his neck and chest.  Every other time she had seen him, whether it was over some fashion of media or in person, his clothing had been exceedingly modest, even to the point of being prudish: all long-sleeved and high-necked shirts and perfectly creased slacks.  Seeing him now, with his sleeves partially rolled up and wearing dark, casual jeans, felt strangely intimate.

Rey scoffed at herself.   _ You’re reading way too much into this.  You’re only here to learn how to cook like a pro.  If it wasn’t for that, someone like Ren would never look twice at you. _

The cork came free with a  _ pop _ .  Ren poured the lush red wine into their glasses in equal portions, then offered one to Rey.  The rich bouquet of sun-ripened berries and heady oak tickled her nose as she raised the glass to her lips, savoring the way that the decadent, sweet liquid spread across her tongue.  It took a huge amount of willpower to not down the entire glass in one go.

“Technically…” Ren started, sounding as though he was measuring each word before speaking, “true malbec wine in determined by the grapes used, not by a specific region.  If that were the case, all malbecs outside of France would be frauds since that is where the grape first originated.  They never took well to France’s climate and were used primarily as blenders, but they thrive in Argentina and in California, which is where the majority of malbecs come from.”

“Oh,” Rey murmured into her wine glass.  “That’s... good to know.”

An awkward silence fell over the pair, the constant hum of the kitchen’s massive refrigerator suddenly aggravatingly loud.  Rey took another sip of wine, needing a few seconds to align her thoughts. Her first cooking lesson was going nothing like she imagined.  Ren may have shed most of his brusqueness since their very first encounter, but he did not let their conversations stray beyond the topic of food and preparation of it, which was something she had expected.  What she had  _ not _ expected was not only standing around his dining room table, discussing the wine she bought on a whim, but doing so in a way that put her insecurities to rest.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to gauge what he would do or say next, and that was making her nervous.

“So,” Rey said, perhaps a bit too loudly, “What’s on the menu tonight?  Duck confit?  French onion soup?  Something stuffed with  _ foie gras _ and poached in butter?”

“I was actually thinking of starting in a different direction.  How do you feel about Italian food?”

“I love it,” Rey said, perking up.  “Mediterranean cuisine is one of my favorites.”

Ren topped off their wine and gestured for her to follow him to the kitchen.  Rey eagerly followed, feeling excited for the first time.

“Like most international cuisine, Americans have completely destroyed the idea of what authentic Italian food actually is.  The most popular variation - overcooked pasta slathered with red sauce - is nothing more than a bastardization of traditional bolognese sauce, which comes from the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy, which is only one of twenty separate regions throughout the country.  Each region has its own food culture that it is fiercely proud of.  If Americans ever took the time to learn that, every Olive Garden restaurant in the country at large would close within a week.”

_ Ah, there’s the Kylo Ren I’m more familiar with. _

Ren moved about the kitchen as he spoke, removing various ingredients and equipment they’d be using; medium-sized oblong plum tomatoes, a wedge of white cheese with a black rind, and a hefty slab of what looked like pork belly, but even more heavily streaked.  It was not until he took out a package of fresh pasta from the fridge that things finally clicked into place.

“You’re going to teach me how to make spaghetti?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

“ _ Bucatini all’amatriciana, _ specifically,” Ren corrected.  “A specialty out of Rome.  If you want to learn what it takes to make good food, you need to first learn what makes food great.”

“Train long and study hard, you must,” Rey quipped in a raspy voice, then blushed when Ren cocked an eyebrow at her.  “Sorry.”

“As I was saying, food culture in each of Italy’s regions are heavily influenced by the ingredients produced there.  The northern regions such as Lombardy and the Aosta Valley prefer polenta and risotto to pasta and butter rather than olive oil.  Warmer climates in the south make crops like tomatoes, artichokes and eggplants plentiful.  Sicily is unique because its cuisine is an amalgamation of all the cultures that have conquered and otherwise occupied the island over the centuries and turning it into something all its own.”  As he spoke, Ren set to work prepping their ingredients for their own meal.  He wielded his knife - a beautiful eight-inch Miyabi blade - with the skill of a master swordsman; the tomatoes and the plump yellow onions on his cutting board weren’t so much sliced as they seemed to fall apart under his touch in perfectly proportioned segments.  “But they all have the same thing in common, as does every great culinary culture around the world does; they use what’s available to them, in the season when it’s available.  

“We are going to be cheating a little bit tonight; if we wanted to keep in spirit of the lesson, we would be making something far more appropriate for autumn, such as risotto with mushrooms and hazelnuts or pumpkin ravioli, but I feel that this dish will more accurately accentuate what I’m talking about.  As I said, amatriciana is specific to the Lozio region, where Rome is located.  The dish’s two main ingredients,  _ guanciale _ and  _ pecorino romano _ -” he respectively pointed to the meat and cheese with his knife - “originate from that area.  Today most places use pancetta and parmigiano reggiano in their place, but it’s important to always remember where something originates from, no matter how humble of a beginning that may feel like.  That, Miss Jakken, is the cornerstone of all cooking.  A chef who forgets that has lost his integrity.”

He paused, casting a glance at her out of the corner of his eye.  Rey felt her heart stutter.  He had given her that look once before, when he told the story of Hades escorting his bride to the underworld.  It was just as improbable to decipher it now as it was then, because surely Kylo Ren wasn’t, even on the most subtle level,  _ flirting _ with her.  She took another sip of her wine, fortifying herself before steering the conversation back to what she hoped was safer waters.

“You know you can call me Rey,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Again, that slight upturn of his mouth _.  Shit _ .  What would she do if he ever smiled at her for real?

“If you insist… Rey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter: See Omega attempt to write angst and drama
> 
> Alright guys, this is it. After two years of speculating, debating, analyzing, and creating innumerable items of fan content in every form, we're finally going to know the next chapter of Rey and Kylo Ren's story, as well as that of Finn, Poe, Luke, Leia, as well as meet new characters like Rose Tico and Admiral Holdo. I don't know about you, but it still all feels very surreal to me, but nonetheless, I can't wait until I get to see it on the 14th! Have fun everyone, have a happy holidays, and as always, may the Force be with us.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Scallops and Turbot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been three months since the release of _The Last Jedi_ and I'm still shook. Not only can I not believe we got as much juicy canon fodder as we did (Force Bond! Shirtless Ren! Hand touch! Saying each other's names! "PLEASE"!) but we're continuing to get more glorious validation from the leaks of the upcoming DVD release. What a wonderful time to be aboard such a beautiful ship.
> 
> Not only do I feel guilty for this chapter taking so long, but that the reason why is because I spent the better part of two or three weeks drafting a canon-compliant, post-TLJ fic that I've been chomping at the bit to start and see how it goes. But, with that being said, I actually know how the next few chapters for this fic are going to pan out, so I'm hoping that updates will happen a little more consistently, but I can make no promises.
> 
> Alas, the angst I alluded to at the end of the last chapter won't be in this one, but it is coming and soon. I can't make it _that_ easy on our stupid love birds, can I?

“You have got to be kidding.”

Rey could practically hear Kylo roll his eyes on the other side of the line. “Contrary to popular belief, a chef does need leave their kitchen every now and then, especially when it’s to learn something new.  Some lessons are best taught at the source, and when it comes to seafood and shellfish there’s no better place than New Fulton.”

“I get that, but why does it have to be at one in the morning?”

Kylo sighed into his phone, which sounded more like a growl than a standard exhale of air.  “Because all the best product is gone by two. Now, considering I know for a fact that no true chef complains at having to keep odd hours, why don’t you just tell me what’s bothering you rather than keep dancing around it?”

Rey frowned as she applied another coat of Clementine Sunset nail polish to her big toe nail.  She only ever painted her nails when she was on the phone, mostly because it kept her from pacing circles around the apartment - not only was it a habit Finn already teased her about, but she didn’t want to risk piquing his attention by overhearing her side of the conversation - but it also bought her some much-needed time to articulate her thoughts into words.

“The episode airs on Sunday.”

“I don’t see why you’re so worried over that.  It’s not as if you don’t know what happens.”

Now it was Rey’s turn to roll her eyes.   _ Asshole _ .  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.  It’s just that...well...sometimes you seem to forget that you’re like, kind of a big deal.”

Rey had started her lessons with Kylo just three weeks ago, and in that time Vader was featured in two different popular restaurant columns, a TV show highlighting the most successful restaurateurs in America, and collected yet another prestigious award.  To top it off, Kylo himself was announced to be a guest of honor at the next IACP Conference, and was even rumored to be on the judging panel for their cookbook award next year. The notion that he was so used to his own fame that he needed to be reminded of it by someone from the outside was something she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

The burning core of Rey’s anxiety, however, stemmed from the premiere of the new season of  _ Iron Chef America _ . The Food Network kicked it off with a Bobby Flay episode the first week, followed by Michael Symon’s first challenge the next.  Rey had desperately hoped that with all the hype already surrounding Poe’s episode the network would save it for closer to the finale before the mid-season break or as the opening episode when the show returned, so she was nothing short of horrified when she learned it would be aired a mere three weeks in.

“You’re still afraid of being seen with me?”

Rey paused in her task, the nail polish brush hovering over her second right toe.  There was something about the tone in Kylo’s voice that made Rey unsure of whether he was making a statement or asking a question.  There was something else too, just beneath the surface; the barest infliction of an emotion she would have never expected from him. Was the great Kylo Ren, the darling of one of the largest and most influential companies in the entire northern hemisphere, feeling... _ hurt _ because of her reluctance to accept his invitation?

Kylo’s voice interrupted her train of thought before it got too far.  “If that is the case, then you don’t need to worry. The people at New Fulton will be far more interested in that night’s shipment of striped bass than spreading cheap tabloid rumors.  Besides, don’t you think it’s better to go now than after your face has been on national television?”

Though his logic did little to relieve her anxiety, she found that she could not argue with it.  Once they agreed on the time and place he’d pick her up (no matter how much she insisted she could look after herself, he absolutely refused to let her traverse the length of Manhattan in the middle of the night alone) Rey stared at the black screen of her phone for what felt like a very long time.  Then she huffed, tossing the device on to her pillow.

_ For fuck’s sake, Jakken, get a hold of yourself.  You’re going to look at a bunch of dead fish with him, not going on a ritzy date.  Any disappointment on his part doesn’t come from you turning down an invitation, but because you’re a student refusing something your teacher wants you to do.  There’s no need to read into it any more than that, because that’s all you’ll ever be to him. _

But that left the question of, what would she be to him when he felt he had nothing left to teach her?  More importantly, what did she  _ want _ to be?

* * *

“Whatever happened to the ‘no one in New York owns a car’ rule?” Rey asked as she slid into the passenger sea of Kylo’s sleek Audi R8, hiding her wince with the slam of the door.   _ Someday I’ll get to the point where I don’t say something idiotic every time I open my mouth when I’m with him _ .  “I have to admit, though, it’s definitely a step up from the subway,” she added, running her hands down the supple leather of her seat.

“I’d like to think so,” Kylo agreed as he put the car into gear.

A mere month ago Rey would have bristled at his curt response, but by now she recognized it as being just a part of his dry sense of humor.  It was not the only unsuspecting surprise that she unearthed about him during their lessons. She knew his taste in music knew no bounds, ranging from Jefferson Airplane to Icelandic black metal, to Lorde to traditional Peruvian folk.  He abhorred texting, and although he never said why Rey suspected it has a lot to do with his hand-to-phone size ratio, which she thought was rather endearing. What Rey found the most intriguing was the impression she got that Kylo’s passion for food did not reside in his own beautiful and sinful creations, but in the simple, almost comfort-like food her lessons seemed to revolve around.  Rey felt as though she was privy to something no one else deemed possible: an understanding of the man behind the legend...or the monster, depending on whom you asked.

Kylo pulled away from the curb, heading for the quickest route uptown to the Bronx.  What few people were on the street at this hour didn’t so much glance up as the Audi passed.  Rey felt the knot of tension she had been carrying between her shoulder blades uncoil. She knew her paranoia was uncalled for, so instead she made herself sit back and watch the city lights streak by, the growl of the Audi’s engine reverberating through her bones.

“Couldn’t resist that twin turbo charge?” Rey asked, though the question was more rhetorical than not.

“The what?” Kylo asked as he switched gears.  In a rare turn of events, Rey was the one who got to raise an eyebrow.  Could it be that she actually knew something he didn’t?

“The engine in your car?” she prompted.  “Most people usually notice when an extra forty grand is added to the sticker price.”

“Oh.  I never really noticed.  This was a gift. From...a potential sponsor.”

Did Rey’s ears deceive her, or did Kylo actually sound...embarrassed?  That receiving an expensive gift from someone hoping to get him to endorse their product or business was a source of shame?  She tried to think of something that would help alleviate the tense silence, but Kylo beat her to it.

“You can tell what kind of engine it is just from the sound?”

Rey gave a nonchalant half-shrug.  “There’s a little more that goes into it than that, but yeah.  I used to spend a lot of time around all kinds of engines.”

“That’s right.  You were an engineering major before you started cooking.”

Rey looked at Kylo out of the corner of her eye, glad that the darkness inside the car hid her look of surprise.  She honestly had not expected him to remember any details from her pre-culinary life; or, more accurately, that he wouldn’t care about them.

“It seems like such a long time ago now.  Back then I was thinking of opening a shop after I graduated that specialized in restoring classic American muscle cars - it’s my favorite era - but imports are where the money is.”

“And now you make food for a living.”

“That’s the long and short of it, yeah.  Funny how life works out like that sometimes.”

“Very much so,” Kylo agreed.

The rest of the trip was made in relative silence, but for once it was not awkward.

* * *

When Kylo first told Rey that he wanted to take her to the New Fulton Fish Market for a lesson in recognizing reputable wholesalers and how to buy the best product, she surmised that the trip would be educational and nothing else.

Ten minutes after their arrival in the cavernous, refrigerated warehouse, Rey was running from stall to stall like a hyperactive kid let loose in a candy store.  She only recognized about a third of the contents in the ice-packed crates and nearly overflowing tanks. There were all the usual staples Poe used in his menu: golden-speckled Spanish mackerel and ugly, gaped-mouth monkfish and sardines that gleamed like silver coins; fat littleneck clams and blush-pink langoustines attempting to escape over the side of their bins.  And then there was everything else: eels writhing in giant plastic tubs; saber-nosed swordfish and dome-headed mahi mahi; spiny sea urchins, pale abalone crawling slowly up the sides of glass tanks and bizarre, tube-shaped sea cucumbers that Rey couldn’t even fathom how to use in food. Two Japanese men argued passionately over a giant loin of bluefin tuna as red as rubies, the belly section so richly marbled with fat that Rey’s mouth watered at the sight.  She had to abstain from laughing when a tiny Japanese woman barreled between the men and slapped a wad of cash into the seller’s hand, and the loin was hauled away as the men gaped in bewilderment.

Eventually Kylo reined her in, reminding her of the reason why they were there to begin with.  Like the vast majority of high-end restaurants in New York, Vader had their ingredients and supplies delivered daily from meticulously selected vendors, but Kylo was a staunch believer that a chef who could not identify every mark of high quality on every single cut of meat, fish, and item of produce that came into their kitchen had no right to serve food to the public.  Thanks to Poe and his ridiculously high standards and prepping raw ingredients for the better part of two and a half years, Rey assumed that she had a pretty good eye for spotting imperfections until Kylo once again proved she still had a lot to learn. 

They moved among the rows of stalls, Rey hanging onto his every word as they examined gills and the clarity of eyes and ran their fingers over fins and scales.  Whereas Poe was always a good teacher when it came to explaining  _ how _ something was done, Kylo took time to explain the  _ why _ in the technique and history of every subject they covered.  Rey learned not only how to identify oysters by their size and shape of their shells alone (to avoid getting ripped off by a dishonest fishmonger trying to subsidize an order of Kumamoto oysters with Pacific ones, Kylo explained) but also how the mollusks went from being eaten exclusively by starving street urchins to being served on a crushed bed of ice at restaurants for fifty bucks a dozen.  She also learned that there were two different ways to pack scallops, and how wet packing yielded meat that was off flavor and didn’t tend to cook as properly as dry packed scallops did. To emphasize his point, Kylo selected a large king scallop from a nearby stand and, taking a shucking knife provided by the seller, had the shell open in two swift slices. The mollusk’s inedible membranes were quickly discarded, leaving a perfect, fat coin of pink-tinged meat in the middle of the shell.  As soon as Kylo proffered the scallop to her Rey plucked it from the shell and popped it into her mouth. It practically melted on her tongue, cold and sweet and absolutely perfect.

Although Kylo had assured her that everyone at New Fulton would be entirely too engrossed in their business to pay them any mind, Rey quickly noticed that Kylo’s presence at the market did in fact attract a lot of attention, but not in the way she expected.  She constantly saw the flicker of recognition in the eyes of the sellers and the buyers over and over again, only to immediately be followed by a change of expression that ranged from caution to outright fear before averting their gaze, as if they were afraid of any repercussions for attracting his attention.  Some people even made a point of moving as far away as they possibly could from Kylo as he passed them in the aisles. The vendors and fishmongers couldn’t run of course, but they certainly looked ready to dive into their tanks if they were unfortunate enough to give Kylo an answer he didn’t like. For his part, Kylo did not seem to notice their less-than-subtle behavior towards him, but Rey felt annoyed almost instantaneously by it.

Two hours into their trip to New Fulton, she was positively livid.  Kylo had been nothing but courteous albeit business-like with the market vendors during the entire course of their visit.  Whenever he happened to find a fish with discolored gills or a bin that had more open clams that closed ones, he did not rant and rave at the fishmonger like some of the other buyers did, but rather pointed out the flaws to her before moving on.  It was not until Kylo made a purchase of forty pounds of turbot - medium-sized flatfish that sold at a whopping $75 a pound - and the seller expressed what an honor it was for his fish to be on Vader’s menu that Rey remembered her own misgiving she expressed to him only a few days ago: “ _ Sometimes you forget you’re kind of a big deal. _ ”  And even before that, weren’t there all those times she’d snigger and roll her eyes at the gossip about him swapped in the kitchen and at the bars?

Now, walking beside him in that chilly, noisy warehouse at two in the morning, it was next to impossible for her to think of him as the tyrant everyone she knew made him out to be.  True, he was more than a little intense at times, and she did not doubt that he ruled his kitchen with an iron fist, but all the best chefs did; a fall from the top of the food chain in this industry meant certain cannibalism from those waiting in the wings.  Rey couldn’t help but wonder how many of the rumors were started by chefs jealous of his talent, or if they stemmed from fear of his horrible boss. She was suddenly overcome by the urge to reach out and take Kylo’s hand, if for no other reason than to assure him he was not alone.  Her fingers nearly brushed his before she realized that she was doing and snatched her hand back, tucking it under the opposite armpit as if doing so would help prevent her from making a grave mistake. Though they continued to grow more comfortable around each other every time they met, there was still a line in whatever their relationship actually was.  Rey knew that she almost stepped over it that night, and she was certain that if she did, there wouldn’t be a way for her to go back.

* * *

It was close to three in the morning when Rey felt her energy begin to wane; she may have been a  night owl long long before she was hired to BB8, but even her energy was not infinite. As though he could feel her attention slipping, Kylo decided to call it a night.  “I’m not going to waste my time explaining something you’re not even going to remember,” he remarked drily, which earned him a quick jab in the ribs from her elbow.

At that point Rey was sure that they would just head back to his car so he could drive her home, which meant she was surprised when he asked if she wanted to get something to eat before they called it a night, and even more so when he suggested grabbing something at the small cafe located right there at the first market.  It was almost surreal seeing him in such a normal setting, complete with laminated menu in front of him and a glass of iced tea at his elbow. She supposed that even multi-million dollar celebrity chefs needed a break from shaved truffles and demi-glace reductions every now and then.

The expensive-looking watch on Kylo’s wrist beeped three AM, but the brightly lit cafe and the lively conversation of the other diners helped Rey perk up a bit.  As she tucked into her omelette - all fluffy eggs, gooey cheese and sweet chunks of ham - Kylo scribbled furiously in a notebook he produced from his coat pocket, his Reuben sandwich all but forgotten.

“New recipe?” she asked, unable to help herself.

“Nothing specific.  Just writing down some ideas on how to prepare the turbot I purchased.”

“How do you determine what other ingredients go best with certain kinds of food?”

“There are a lot of different factors to consider, but first and foremost you need to understand each ingredient’s flavor profile and which cooking technique is the best to use for it.  Turbot is very similar to halibut, in that it has a mild flavor and low oil content, so you don’t want to pair it with flavors that will overpower it, nor do you want to cook it under high heat and dry it out.  Learning how to best utilize each profile is normally taught in culinary school, an apprenticeship, or - most commonly - being reamed by the head chef for screwing up on something.”

Rey snorted; she had definitely found herself on the receiving end of the wrath of BB8’s sous on more than one occasion, and she always made sure to learn how not to make the same mistake again.

“Once you master the basics, it’s just like any form of artistic expression.  You experiment, you take account of your successes and your failures, try out new techniques, take risks, and learn from your mistakes.  Like all art, success has the tendency to favor the bold.” He jotted down one more line of notes, closed the notebook, and put it back in his coat pocket.  Then he cocked his head slightly, considering her. “I take it you don’t do much cooking outside of work?”

“Oh no, it’s not that.  I cook at home all the time, but experimentation never works out well for me.”  She grimaced, thinking of all the sad, collapsed souffles at the bottom of her trash can.  Her superior palate didn’t do much to help her if she didn’t know what the end result was supposed to be.  “No, I was just never the artistic type. I do better learning by example and following blueprints created by someone else.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.  You have the talent, there’s no mistaking that.  Now you just need the experience. Dameron and I... As you know, we don’t always see eye to eye, even on mutual ground, but I’ve never found fault with his standards.  He saw your potential, and decided to take the risk. No one else would have dared to do that, especially with two stars to defend.”

Rey mumbled out her thanks, but instead of feeling pride at his praise she felt the return of a roil of conflicting emotions that brought the night to a bleak end.  When her lessons with him first began, she made it abundantly clear that her loyalties were to Poe and his restaurant, and the only thing she wanted from Kylo was whatever culinary knowledge he decided to bestow upon her.  Her conditions were as black and white as she could make them, a line in the sand that marked where her priorities lay. It was not until she found herself sitting in a warehouse cafe in the Bronx at three in the morning talking over comfort food that that she was forced to realize just how blurred she let that line become, and how wholly unprepared she was for dealing with this Kylo Ren compared to the one she conjured in her mind.  That Kylo Ren never cracked jokes, did not own the Cranberries’ complete discography, and he certainly never freely gave compliments about her boss.

She was not supposed to care for this Kylo the way she did.

_ It’s nothing _ , Rey told herself, repeating it over and over like a mantra.   _ It’s nothing, it all means nothing. _

But she didn’t want it to be nothing.  Not anymore.

* * *

Poe closed BB8 early the following Sunday so the entire staff could watch their appearance on  _ Iron Chef America _ .  Snap opened up the bar, and Sharon and Tamara, two of their servers, were sent to Song’e Napule to pick up the dozen pizzas Poe ordered earlier.  Tio hooked up a large flat screen TV in the lounge, last minute bets were made, and the hostess and the rotisseur made the final touches on the rules of their  _ ICA _ drinking game.  It was shaping up to be one hell of a night.

Rey just wanted it to be over.

“Hey!  Why so glum?” Finn asked as he vaulted onto the bar stool next to her.

_ I’m hopelessly attracted to my boss’s arch nemesis and fast losing my grip on my priorities but I’m afraid I no longer have the self-discipline to stop myself and after tonight my two lives are bound to be set on a collision course and I have no idea when and where the crash will happen. _

“Nothing.”

“C’mon, Rey: you’ve always been a lousy liar, and I say that with love.  It all turns out alright, you and I both know that.”

“I know.  I guess I’m just nervous.  It’s only just sinking in that we’re about to be on national television.”

“You’ve been on TV before.”

“Yeah, in the background of a segment for some kind of travel or food show, not as an active player.” Rey sighed and picked at her cuticles, a long-time habit of hers she never could quite shake, especially when she was anxious about something.  “I’m just thinking of what I would have done different, knowing what I do now. Not have called so much attention to myself, for one.”

_ But if I just kept my head down and did my job, would Kylo have noticed me at all? _

“It’s not like you were doing it to keep the cameras on you; you were just being yourself, and Poe and I know it.”  Finn put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a half-hug. “Look, the most that will come out of tonight is we’ll make some waves on social media and see a spike in reservations for the next few months.  Nothing more that than. I promise.”

Rey smiled, her lungs decompressing a bit.  “Are we just going to take turns talking each other down from panic attacks for the rest of our lives?”

“Works for me,” Finn grinned.

Sharon and Tamara finally returned, their arms loaded with pizza boxes and various sized containers balanced precariously on top.  Everyone helped to arrange the food on the bartop and the vacant tables, and by the time they were situated with their plates and drinks the opening theme of  _ Iron Chef America _ began to blare through the TV’s speakers.

For Rey, it was a more than a little uncomfortable seeing herself on TV, watching her own erratic behavior compared to the professionalism of the others while Alton Brown and Kevin Brauch continually commenting on it, so she started watching her colleagues’ reactions instead.  Other than it being difficult to not react to their jeering and insults whenever Kylo was on screen, she soon started to relax and thoroughly enjoy herself. The drinking game was in full swing by the time they got to the first commercial break (take one drink whenever makes a sexual innuendo, two whenever Hux looks like he’s trying to pass a kidney stone), and they hailed her like a hero for conquering the ice cream machine which in turn resulted in Kylo nearly botching one of his dishes.  She even began to feel silly for being so worried in the first place. 

Then came the presentation of Kylo’s pomegranate sorbet in its chocolate shell.  

The lounge gradually lapsed into silence as he recounted Persephone’s descent to the underworld to be with her dark lord, the power of his words capturing their attention without effort.  It was quite eerie, really; this group of people was almost never this quiet, and Rey felt her earlier dread return with renewed force. Kylo finished his soliloquy, his eyes darting away from the judges to cast their gaze beyond their table. 

The camera cut away from him, and Rey suddenly found herself staring at her own bewildered face on the screen in all its high-def glory.

Alton Brown announced that the verdict was to come after the final commercial break, but no one in BB8’s lounge was paying him any mind.  They were all too busy staring at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: It's been almost exactly one year since I finished writing the end to the _ICA_ battle to now, when the characters finally get to watch it.
> 
> This is another super late post. If I made any glaring mistakes, please let me know so I can fix it when I'm more awake ~~shakes fist at daylight savings time~~
> 
> [ International Association for Culinary Professionals (IACP) ](https://www.iacp.com/about/)


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Bone and Bread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we over 50k words in. Time to start dropping some bombshells.

**Chapter Fourteen: Bone and Bread**

Kylo turned the television remote in his hand.  It felt far more like a bomb detonator than a harmless household appliance.

Kylo hated television and everything that went into making it.  A vast portion of his childhood memories were of blazing hot lights, great snarls of cords covering the floor like fat snakes, and too many bodies in too small a space, shouting orders and directions and constantly snapping at him for not being where he was supposed to be.  He remembered headaches and panic attacks and more broken promises than he could count. Most accurately, he remembered crouching in a forest of audio and video equipment, watching his mother being interviewed. It always felt like something out of a bad dream. The woman sitting across from the TV show host looked and sounded like his mother, but the heavy makeup, harsh lighting and artificial environment made him think that she had been replaced by a robot, or one of the aliens from  _ Invasion of the Body Snatchers. _   While most children were glued to their TV for an obscene amount of time day in and day out, Kylo learned at an early age that it only served to warp people and reality into something nightmarish and barely recognizable.

That, or it snatched people away altogether, coercing them with money and fame in exchange for leaving their families for months on end so millions of strangers could be entertained for an hour a week.  Kylo swore, even before he finished losing all his baby teeth, that he would never succumb to the media’s evil clutches the way his parents had.

That same vow was broken nearly fifteen years later, undone by a signature at the end of a three hundred page contract.  It was a small price to pay in return for the full realization of all his visions and dreams. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if people who sold their souls to the devil thought the same thing in the beginning.

Working in television as an adult made him - if possible - loath it even more.  It was only a combination of his intense dislike of social media and post 9/11 anxiety that compelled him to keep a flat screen TV and Xfinity connection in his bedroom, and even then he only turned it on during an emergency so he could be kept up-to-date with all announcements and developments (the last time being Hurricane Sandy).  Everything else was just nonsensical noise: meaningless sporting events and screaming advertisements, over-produced and overrated serial shows, and of course, the steaming cesspool of the criminally misnamed “reality TV.” He even went as far as to ban any discussion of television while his chefs were on the clock. They were at Vader to cook, not to discuss the events of the previous night’s episode of  _ American Idol _ (and what in the everlasting fuck as a “Honey Boo Boo?”).

The digital clock on his nightstand  _ pinged _ the hour: it was now or never.  Kylo hit the power button on the remote and braced himself for the worst.

For Kylo, the only thing worse than making TV was having to watch himself on it.  It brought back too many hurtful memories of his few television debuts with his mother, when the makeup departmently loudly fretted about the number of moles and acne scars on his face they had to conceal, or how to best cover his ears so they weren’t his most prominent feature and how it was too bad they couldn’t do the same for his nose.  Once that was done there were still the cameramen, who complained about not being able to fit his gangly frame in the same shots as his mother. Not matter how old he got, Kylo would only ever see the too-tall awkward teenager with disproportionate features in a too-long face, and know that people always wondered how the regal Leia Organa and the devilishly charming Han Solo failed to pass down even a single attractive gene to their only child.  Kylo would turn thirty two that year, and the memory still cut him as deep as the sharpest knife in his kitchen.

Thankfully, his attention was quickly diverted elsewhere.  Not more than a second after the Chairman called out his signature line Rey came barreling onto the screen, nearly colliding with the altar as she scooped up armfulls of the secret ingredients before bolting back to her station.

Although they were growing more comfortable around each other, Rey was still mindful about what she said and did when she was with him.  Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of that fiery spirit that first got his attention, like sunlight peeking through a crack in the wall.  It was bright and warm, and called to him like a moth to a flame. But then she realized what she was doing and seal it away again, as though she was worried that his opinion of her would change in an instant if she slipped up.  He wanted to reassure her that she didn’t have to worry about that, that he wanted her to be open with him instead of feeling like she had to hide a part of herself away, but he always refrained. Anything that could potentially disrupt their delicate status quo was not worth the risk, so he’d just have to learn to settle with what he had.  And what he had right now was  _ Iron Chef America _ .

For the next half our Kylo perched on the end of his bed, elbows on his knees and chin resting on his interlaced fingers, a small but undeniably tender smile on his face as he watch Rey tear through Kitchen Stadium like a miniaturized tornado.  He even allowed himself a chuckle at the flabbergasted look on his own face when she fixed the ice cream machine. Her lack of experience was painfully obvious, but where he once found it aggravating he now saw her for what she truly was: a rare, precious jewel freshly unearthed, ready to be crafted into something of incalculable worth.  Dameron may have gotten her started down the road to being a great chef, but it would take a certain kind of teacher to unlock her full potential.

Kylo had intended to turn off his TV before the judging began since the sous chefs had nothing to do with it, but he suddenly found himself unwilling to do so.  He would never forget how that bolt of inspiration felt when she shot him that positively wicked grin after the ice cream machine was fixed. All of the remaining preconceptions he had of her were abolished in that instant when he recognized in her the ability to thrive off of stress and chaos rather than be beaten down by it, to accept any challenge with claws out and teeth bared.  He could practically see it unfurl in her eyes like a dark flower, ready to ensnare anyone in its thorns who dared underestimate her, and before he could fully think it through he had to - just  _ had _ to - make sure everyone else knew it too.

He was not disappointed; as the sphere of dark chocolate melted away to reveal the heart of pomegranate sorbet on the inside, he knew that the judges were not looking at food, but reliving the myth of Hades and his queen and understand through that first bite why Persephone returned to her husband in the underworld year after year.

Then the camera cut away from him to train directly on Rey’s face, remaining there long enough so her bewildered expression became ingrained on the backs of his eyes.

Kylo’s blood ran cold, turning his heart into a lump of ice in his chest.  He fumbled with the remote and turned off the TV, as if doing so would erase what just happened.  The first thing he felt after the numbness abated was rage. What the hell were the post-production editors thinking?  What was the fucking  _ point _ ?  He was ready to seize the phone and demand the whole department be fired until a rare moment of clarity pierced through the fury and yanked him back from the edge.  No, this was his fault; he was the one who called attention to her in the first place. The post-production team did nothing but recognize an opportunity to boost the episode’s ratings and took full advantage of it.  The damage had been done long before the footage was ever given to them.

Kylo sat shock still on his bed, breathing deeply and trying to recall the meditation techniques his uncle attempted to teach him to better control his temper.  The unique design of Walker Tower made it so no outside sounds penetrate his loft, whether it be from the busy streets below or from the other residents, wrapping him in a cocoon of silence that helped him collect his thoughts.  For when the phone call came - and come it would - he needed to be ready.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.  The sound it made against the wood sounded like a death rattle.

He wasn’t ready.

Kylo let his phone ring twice more before he reached over to retrieve it.  He already let it go for too long; Snoke detested waiting, and the last thing Kylo needed was to make this situation any worse than it already was.

Because “worse” meant dragging Rey into it.

Kylo hit the “call accept” button and brought the phone up to his ear.

“Sir.”

“Quite an interesting episode, Ren,” Snoke’s deep voice filled his head, pushing out all other thoughts.  “But I have some questions. Perhaps you’d care to clarify them for me…”

* * *

“Rey, there’s someone up front who wants to…”

“Tell them to fuck right the fuck off!” Rey snarled.  

The host was sent running for cover, the rest of the message left hanging in the kitchen’s steamy air.  The rest of the cooks quickly averted their eyes and returned to their individual tasks, pretending they didn’t hear her latest outburst.  Even Finn wouldn’t look at her.

_ Good fucking riddance,  _ Rey thought savagely, returning to de-boning the leg of lamb on her cutting board.   _ I swear if one more person comes in asking about that goddamned episode I’ll chuck them into the oven and serve them as tonight’s special.  Roast of It’s-None-Of-Your-Bloody-Business. I’ll even have Poe translate it to Spanish so it sounds fancy _ .

Half of Finn’s post-episode premier prediction came true: reservations for BB8 spiked, and by the following Friday they were booked tsolid hrough the first of the year.  What he had been wrong about was they didn’t create waves on social media: they created a tsunami. The day after the episode aired, “#kylorenmysterygirl” and “#whoisrenspersephone” were trending topics.  Poe’s accountant, who also ran BB8’s website and social networking pages, reported that their Twitter feed exploded with hundreds of tweets that largely consisted of people analyzing and making theories of the real connection between Rey and Kylo Ren’s sensual final course: he was a jilted lover, it was an on-air declaration of love, or Ren was taking a shot at Poe through his sous were just a few.  Other people commented on the more direct interactions between her and Kylo during the course of the episode. A lot of the tweets unanimously agreed that they were “totally flirting,” and one user unabashedly declared “Kylo Ren can bend me over his cutting board any time.” Still more wondered what other parts of him were made of iron.

It was not until she walked into one of the line chefs reading “Kylo Ren looks like he wants to stuff Poe’s cute little sous chef like a Christmas goose” aloud to the rest of the kitchen staff that Rey completely lost her shit.  She grabbed the object closest to her - in this case, a large femur bone ready to be split for its marrow - and flung it clear across the kitchen. The projectile hit the offending chef’s phone and knocked it clean out of his hand, shattering the screen in the process.  Finn and Poe were barely able to keep her from storming out of her shift. From that moment on, Poe forbade the reading or discussing of any tweets relating to the episode while his staff was in the restaurant, which Rey was eternally grateful for (she did end up paying to replace her co-worker’s screen, and Poe did have to warn her that he’d have to write her up if he caught her throwing dangerous food items again instead of coming to talk to him first.  She saw it as a fair trade.)

But the nightmare did not end there.  Soon people actually started calling and coming in to BB8 and asking for her directly, hoping to get the first hot insight for their Kylo Ren fan sites or gossip rags from the source.  Rey sent each one of them packing as soon as she learned they were in the restaurant, restraining herself only because she didn’t want Poe’s reputation damaged because people overheard that his prep cook was crazy.  After almost a whole week of that bullshit, though, her self-control was starting to wear thin.

On top of it all was the looming inevitability of having to see Kylo again for the first time following the episode’s premiere.  They had to cancel their lesson the following week, which bummed Rey out since Monday evenings was one of the highlights of her week.  With the holidays just around the corner, Vader would be booked for private parties, charity events and high-roller fundraisers from Thanksgiving to the New Year, preparation needed to start as soon as possible, making it one long six-week headache for Kylo.  But now, after seeing the episode in its final, disastrous form, Rey was glad for the break...at least for the first twenty four hours before the Twitter shitstorm hit. Now she had to face him with her head full of all the gross things people were saying about them on the Internet.  At first she hoped that he wouldn’t have heard any of it, what with his disdain of social media, but she knew she was only fooling herself. He was right in the middle of the beating heart of the culinary world. It was only a matter of time before he heard of it, one way or another.

Then what?

“Rey?”

Rey rounded on the new voice, her boning knife still clutched in her fist.  Poe jumped about two feet back, hands held in front of him defensively. “Whoa there, Jakken!  The dinner rush is starting soon, so let’s not send anyone to the ER right now, yeah?”

Rey lowered the knife, blowing out a huge sigh.  “Sorry, Poe. Someone up front is asking for me again and I am just so fucking over it.”

“See, funny thing is, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about.  She said she knew you!” he exclaimed, taking another step back from the murderous glare she gave him.  “I’m pretty sure she said her name was Maz…”

Rey was washing her hands before Poe could finish, and did not even bother to dry them before she bolted from the kitchen.

The main dining room of BB8 was only minimally occupied, so Rey spotted the tiny old woman right away.  Other than the new webs of wrinkles on her face and the steel-gray hue of her hair, Rey’s former foster mother was exactly as she remembered her; she could almost taste the graham crackers and cold milk that were always waiting for her on the kitchen table when she got home from school.  Tears flooded Rey’s eyes as her feet moved on their own accord, not stopping until she was folded in the thin arms of the only mother figure she’d ever known.

* * *

Poe gave Rey and extended lunch, and for the next two hours she and Maz sat on BB8’s patio beneath one of its heat lamps, eating slices of Finn’s rustic bread directly from the oven and topped with slices of lardo while they caught up on the past ten or so years they’d been separated.  

As it turned out, Maz’s visit to New York City was entirely coincidental.  Breaking her hip had been a wake-up call that she was not as young as she used to be and she sure as hell was not going to be getting any younger.  As soon as her doctor gave her the okay to travel Maz made it her mission to spend her golden years seeing the world as it was meant to be seen. In the last five years she had climbed to the summit of Machu Piccu and strolled along the Great Wall of China, watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and volunteered to help care for orphaned children in Ghana.  Just in the past year or so she decided to visit the most famous cities and landmarks in the United States, and it was while she was in her hotel room en route to New York that she happened to catch Poe’s debut on  _ Iron Chef America _ .  While the rest of her tour group headed to Ellis Island for the day, Maz sought out BB8 and her long-lost ward, who was now cooking alongside one of the most revered chefs in the country.

Thankfully, Maz didn’t want to talk about the years between when Rey was taken from her home and when she aged out of the system other than to express her regret that she was not able to keep in touch with her.  Rey was perfectly okay with pretending like those years didn’t exist, and instead told Maz all about her time at NYU, the amazing friends she made, then her cooking lessons with Poe and how it lead to her being hired at BB8.  While Finn was dropping off more bread at their table he couldn’t help but resist telling Maz about the Shrimp Incident before Rey finally chased him off.

Eventually they got around to talking about their episode of  _ Iron Chef America _ .  It was one of Maz’s favorite shows, so she wanted all of the details.  At first Rey was more than happy to oblige, especially with Maz beaming at her like a proud parent, but then the conversation turned to the topic that Rey had hoped to avoid, even though she knew it wasn’t a possibility.

“Never in my life did I think that boy would turn out to be the walking mountain he is.  Han was convinced he was doomed to be a beanpole forever.”

“Who?” Rey asked half-heartedly, laying a slice of mahon cheese on some more bread.

“Han Solo’s boy, Ben.”

Rey froze, the bread halfway to her mouth.  “I didn’t know Han Solo had any kids.”

“Just the one, and no, I can’t imagine you would since he hasn’t gone by that name for maybe ten years now.  You  _ do _ know him, though.”  Maz’s dark eyes sparkled mischievously behind the coke-bottle lenses of her glasses.  “He was giving you some pretty heavy-duty bedroom eyes while you were in Kitchen Stadium.”

Rey gasped so sharply she inhaled some bread crumbs, sending her into a coughing fit.  When she could finally breathe again, she choked out, “Kylo Ren’s dad is Han Solo?  _ The _ Han Solo, from  _ Going Solo?” _

“The one and the same,” Maz said, as though they were discussing nothing more interesting than the weather.

Rey remembered the time she and Kylo met at the coffee shop with the amazing croissants.  Kylo had casually mentioned that his father did a traveling TV show, but never in a million years would she ever link him to her childhood hero.  She told Maz as much, leaving out the part of it being a one-on-one meeting no one was supposed to know about.

“Did he mention his mother?”

“Kind of.  He said she was wrote food columns and is a restaurant critic…” The realization hit Rey so hard she swayed in her seat a little.  “Leia Organa is his mother. That makes his uncle…”

“That one’s a little tougher: Luke Skywalker.”

The laugh that escaped Rey’s mouth was one of half-disbelief,  half-incredulity. “And here I was beginning to think Luke Skywalker was a myth based on how I’ve heard other chefs talk about him.”

“Man.  Myth. Call him what you will, but no self-respecting restaurateur can deny his contribution to the hospitality culture before he retired and went into hiding.  The only other chef in the world who could possibly outdo him was  _ his _ father, Anakin, and now maybe his nephew.”

Rey had not heard of Anakin Skywalker - meaning he would be Kylo Ren’s grandfather - but her head was so full of new information she did not think she was capable of taking in any more, save one.

“You said Han was worried that Ky… Ben would be scrawny his whole life.  Did he say that on one of his episodes?”

“No.  He told me himself.  Han and I go way,  _ way _ back.”

_ As if the universe isn’t small enough already, _ Rey thought, slumping back in her chair.  She did not know which of the revelations was harder to process: that Kylo Ren née Ben Solo was the son of Han Solo and Leia Organa and the nephew of Luke Skywalker: that Maz was a long-time friend of Han Solo and never thought to bring it up to her: or that Kylo worked for a man who had a vendetta against his mother and attempted to undermine her credibility in every way possible, and Kylo was helping him do it.  Overshadowing all these thoughts was one much larger, all-encompassing question: what had happened between Ben and his family that made him cut all ties with them and throw in with Snoke’s lot? Suddenly a handful of stupid tweets felt like a very silly and insignificant thing to worry about for the next time she saw Kylo.

Who ever thought that being a cook would be this complicated?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOMBS AWAY
> 
> I know I keep promising angst, and I was planning on adding one more part to this chapter, but this just felt like the right place to end it. Also, it will hopefully allow me to jump right into the next since I know what will happen. 
> 
> I wasn't planning to have Rey learn about Kylo's past until later, but Maz up and decided she was going to change that right as I started writing her. It's funny how things like that happen sometimes. You have a plan in mind and then a character comes along and says "Sit yo ass down, I got this."
> 
> Two months isn't too bad of a space between chapters, right? I may have finished this earlier, but I got dragged away by a group of violent dust bunnies who held me hostage until I finished writing the first chapters of a Reylo canon-compliant fic that came to mind since I was TLJ. The first two chapters of _Chimera_ are up and I hope to explore its plot for all it's worth, but _Allez Cuisine!_ will always be my top priority, so no worries about it getting sidelined. I have too much in mind for that to happen.


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Lasagna and Breadsticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey is reminded why Kylo Ren has an infamous reputation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Mentions of drug and alcohol abuse.
> 
> Just a reminder I am neither a cook/chef, nor have I ever worked in the restaurant and Kylo is an asshole. Whatever he says in his chapter do not reflect my personal beliefs.

**Chapter Fifteen: Lasagna and Breadsticks**

They did not meet for a lesson the next week.

Or the week after that.

At first, Rey tried not to let it get her down.  Kylo already told her that the end of the year was a busy time for him, and it wasn’t like she didn’t have anything to keep herself occupied.  

Rey finally gave in and agreed to do Finn’s Ghostbusters group costume for Halloween, but only under the condition that she got to dress up as Holtzmann from the 2016 movie.  Overflowing with excitement, Finn also recruited their friends Rose Tico and her sister, Paige - whose parents owned a popular Vietnamese restaurant on 6th Avenue - to join them.  The two young women met Rey, Finn and Poe (who were Winston Zeddmore and Peter Venkman, respectively) at their apartment: Rose as the cutest Stay Puft marshmallow girl in the world, and Paige in a badass Gozer costume.  They were instantly among the most popular groups during the Village’s Halloween celebration, and even managed to snag second place in one of the many costume contests.

Then there was BB8’s own holiday events to prepare for.  Every December, Poe put together a special tasting menu inspired by the traditional Christmas dinners of Spain and Guatemala and donated half of their proceeds to local charities that helped feed hungry families.  While Poe mostly stuck with the same main ingredients - lamb, carabineros prawns, suckling pig, marcona almonds - the itself menu changed every year, which meant putting in a lot of extra hours in the kitchen, experimenting with new recipes, modifying old ones, and trying to anticipate how much they needed to order based on the numbers from the previous year.  Rey was especially kept busy, as Poe had practically begged her to utilize her super palette to improve on the dishes even more (with the incentive of an additional bonus on her paycheck, of course).

But as soon as she had nothing to distract her, Rey’s thoughts always turned back to Kylo.  Or was it Ben now? What was she even supposed to  _ do _ with all that information Maz dropped on her lap?

_ Absolutely nothing _ , the logical part of her brain said sternly.  Kylo’s past had absolutely no bearing on their relationship, which went no further than teacher and student.  If anything, the revelations highlighted what Rey had gradually let slip by the wayside: that Kylo and her boss were bitter rivals, and that Kylo’s boss sought out to either buy out every reputable chef in the city, or destroy them for resisting.  She also remembered, in the few times they brushed any topic tied to his past, how quickly he would shut it down, the little warmth she was able to draw out in his demeanor instantly going cold. Rey didn’t know if she’d call Kylo a friend in the same context of Finn, Poe and Rose, but the time they spent together was important to her.

_ He _ was becoming important to her.

One of the many life lessons Rey learned from her years in the system was that when you had something good going for you, you did whatever was in your power to preserve it.  She knew it was going to be difficult the next time she saw him, knowing everything she did now, but she’d have to learn to live with it. Maybe someday he’d open up to her and tell her his whole story, but until then he was teaching her what she needed to know so that one day she might be included in the pantheon of great contemporary chefs.  Everything else would come later.

Of course, it was going to be difficult to achieve even  _ that _ without any actual lessons.  By the time the third Monday passed and still no word from Kylo, Rey was starting to get antsy.  She went from checking her email once to twice a day to checking it every few hours. When he failed to contact her she at last reached out to him, trying to keep her message as casual as possible so he wouldn’t pick up on how much their missed lessons were affecting her.

When two days passed with still no response, she called his phone directly.  It went straight to voicemail. That in itself was nothing unusual: he normally kept his phone off while he was at his restaurant, or when he was doing an interview or some other publicity appointment for Snoke somewhere in the City.  When that had been the case in the past, he always returned her calls the next day.

Three days passed without a word.

Now Rey was pissed.

If Kylo wanted to end their lessons, fine, but she’d be  _ damned _ if she let him walk away without telling her why, one professional to another.

* * *

The weather suited Rey’s mood perfectly as she marched up to the entrance of Walker Tower the following Monday.  The clear, mild days were overtaken by an early cold snap that brought in low gray clouds, knife-sharp winds, and a chance of the season’s first snow flurries later that night.  Roger, the building’s ever-vigilant doorman, greeted her by name as she walked past him. Rey remembered her manners long enough to say hello back before making a beeline for the elevators.  Roger was thankfully a smart man: the fact that she was on a warpath must have been more than obvious, but he wisely chose to remain mum.

Rey never bothered to consider whether or not Kylo was even home, but that did not stop her from pounding on his door with her fist, nor did she care whether or not his neighbor heard the racket she was making.

“Ren!” she bellowed through the door’s thick wood.  “I don’t know what your deal is and I don’t really care, but you do not get to throw me aside like some bad blind date!  If you’re in there you’d better open this door right now or so help me I’ll get the fire axe by the stairwell and go full Jack Torrence on your ass!”

Rey’s fury was swiftly absorbed into the hall’s carpets and walls, making her breathing sound especially loud to her own ears.  Her outburst did little to alleviate the anger and hurt brought on by nearly four weeks of radio silence, and she had to force herself to keep her fists planted firmly at her sides so she didn’t do something really irrational.  Instead she started counting in her head, giving him until one hundred until he either opened the door, or she left with whatever dignity she still had intact.

She just reached sixty-four when she heard the sound of the deadbolt being turned.  Rey felt her heart leap in her chest, accompanied by the relief brought on by the certainty that everything was going to be alright.  Then Kylo opened the door, and the feeling popped like a soap bubble.

He looked, if she was going to be perfectly blunt about it, like absolute shit.  His hair was unkempt and sticking up sick ways to Sunday, which might have earned a laugh if it was not for the frighteningly dark circles under his eyes.  The collar of his shirt was skewed and undone, the fabric horribly wrinkled and… Jesus, was he wearing  _ sweatpants?! _

Before she could lose her nerve - or he had the chance to slam the door in her face - Rey barreled straight past Kylo into his apartment, only to be greeted by a second unexpected sight.  To say his place was always immaculate was an understatement; she never saw so much as a sweater draped over the back of a chair or an empty glass sitting on the edge of the kitchen sink. Now every available surface was covered in an array of loose leaf paper, notebooks, and cookbooks that sprouting colorful post-it notes from between the pages.  Crumpled paper balls littered the floor like giant hailstones. In the kitchen, every pot and pan Kylo owned were stacked on the counters among a battalion of food processors, immersion circulators, a stand mixer, sieves, and just about every other piece of kitchen equipment imaginable. Everything was clean, but it was as if Kylo couldn’t be bothered to put them away only to have to take them out again at a moment’s notice.  It looked for all the world like she caught him in the middle of a creative frenzy, but the overall disarray of his apartment left her with an unsettling feeling. Reminding herself why she was there in the first place, Rey rounded on him, refusing to allow him to do or say anything that could derail her before she said her piece.

Again, she felt that pang in her chest when she looked at him, her base instincts alerting her that something was not right.  Not only had Kylo failed to say anything in regards to her unexpected arrival, it did not appear to register with him that she was there at all.  He stared at her with a dazed expression, as though trying to figure out if she was a dream or not. The tightness in her chest quickly swelled to a feeling of dread, causing her heart to drop to her stomach.  Was he drunk? Or high? Or  _ both _ ?  When she first started at BB8, she was quick to learn that one of the darkest aspects of the restaurant industry was the tragically high number of chefs addicted to drugs and alcohol.  The intensity that came from working the line, combined with the post-shift hard partying, created the perfect gateway to heroin, cocaine, and heavy binge-drinking. Poe had zero tolerance for his chefs showing up to their shift high, but more often than not he was forced to turn a blind eye to his own rules, especially when every table was booked for the night and being short-staffed was not an option.  Rey had never even considered Kylo a user, and if it had ever crossed her mind, she just ignorantly assumed that his status put him beyond reach of the influence of drugs. In retrospect she knew it was a stupid thing to think, and a harsh reminder of how little she actually knew about him.

When she took a closer look at him, though, she realized that she couldn’t see any physical symptoms that he was either high or drunk, and that nothing more sinister was amiss than he had been asleep and she woke him up with her caterwauling.  An apology hovered on the end of her tongue, but it would have to wait.

“What’s going on, Ren?” Rey demanded.  “Why are you avoiding me?”

The veil of grogginess over his eyes finally lifted a little; he blinked as if just realizing she was there for the first time.  “I haven’t been avoiding you.” It was less of a protest and more her own words getting parroted back to her, causing the flames of indignation to burn even hotter.

“Bullshit!” she snarled, eliciting a wince from him.  “I tried giving you the benefit of the doubt at first, but it’s been three.  Fucking. Weeks. And not so much as a single text from you. If you want to discontinue the lessons, fine-” she hoped he didn’t hear the waver in her voice when she spoke the last word- “but I deserve to know why.”

Rey exhaled heavily through her nose, grasping at whatever frayed ends of her self-control were left.  Kylo took advantage of her lapse of silence by crossing over to the living area and dropping into one of the leather recliners, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose and eyes screwed tightly shut.  Silence stretched between them for an agonizingly long time as Rey waited for something to happen, for him to say  _ anything _ , to give her some semblance of an excuse she the accept. The hairline crack on her heart grew wider the longer he remained mute.  Unable to stand it any longer, Rey finally took the leap across that awful chasm.

“Is this… about the episode?” She couldn’t bring herself to elaborate beyond that, but the inside of her mind was a cyclone of unasked questions.   _ Is anything people are speculating true?  Were we really flirting without realizing it? _

_ Am I your Persephone? _

Her question seemed to drive him out of whatever dark hole he was trying to crawl into; Kylo stood so abruptly that Rey actually jumped in surprise.  Instead of finally opening up to her, he strode past her without so much as a passing glance. Rey’s spirits dropped even lower than before.

“I’ve been busy,” he finally said; his voice had a cold, sharp edge to it.  “I told you the last time we met that holiday preparations at my restaurant take precedence over everything else.  I simply lost track of time.”

Rey was glad Kylo was facing away from her so he could not see the hurt she was sure was plain on her face.  The way he emphasized certain words - “ _ my _ restaurant” - “ _ everything _ else” - jabbed at her like poisonous barbs.

“Besides,” he added, his tone a degree gentler, “it was only one episode.  Once there’s nothing else to fuel their gossip people will move on to something else and forget that it ever happened.”

Rey nodded, dropping her eyes to the floor.  A few weeks ago that statement would have brought relief.  Now, it only caused a lump to catch in Rey’s throat. There was a kind of finality in the way he said it, and Rey knew he was addressing her just as much as he was talking about the masses.  His meaning was clear; what happened on the show was of no importance. You shouldn’t let it have any bearing on your life. Forget about it. Move on.

And it hurt.

“I take it you haven’t seen what people are saying on social media,” Rey grumbled through the growing tightness in her windpipe.  She didn’t intended for Kylo to hear her, but he paused shuffling his papers, half-turning his head so his face was angled toward her.  Waiting for her to tell him exactly what the people who watched the episode were saying about them.

She wanted to tell him.  God, in that moment she wanted nothing more than to spill her guts all over his highly polished hardwood floors and relay every iota of gossip that had plagued her for four long weeks.  What had once been small inklings and errant wandering thoughts was now a monstrous elephant that filled the whole room, threatening to demolish the entire apartment if it was not acknowledged, and soon.

But in the end she didn’t end up saying anything.  Because for all of her bravado, she was really just a coward.  Because she feared that this was all just inside her head, and voicing it aloud to him would only result in embarrassment and humiliation.

Because she was too goddamned afraid of being rejected.

“It’s nothing,” she finally said, averting her eyes.  “Like you said, it doesn’t matter.”

“I see,” Kylo said so flatly that Rey didn’t even bother to figure out what he meant by it.  She did, however, take it as her cue that it was time for her to leave with whatever dignity she had left.  But before she could take a single step towards the door, Kylo spoke again. “You’re right, though. I should have at least emailed you instead of letting you believe I was ignoring you on purpose.”

Once Rey realized that Kylo was trying to apologize, the tension she had been carrying for the past couple of weeks instantly uncoiled, leaving her unexpectedly light-headed in its wake.   _ We’re okay, _ she thought to herself with immense relief.   _ We’re going to be okay. _

“It happens,” she said with a half-shrug.  “I shouldn’t have been such a bitch about it.  It’s not like you don’t have an empire to run or anything.”  She smiled at him, just a lift of one side of her mouth, but her heart still flipped when he returned it.  It was a small thing - had she blinked, she would have missed it - but it was still for her, and she intended to keep it.

“Something good did come out of that whole fiasco,” Rey said, wanting the night the end on the highest upbeat possible.  “My favorite foster parent came to see me at BB8, and she only found me by watching  _ Iron Chef America _ .  I haven’t seen her since I was removed from her home, and always regretted not being able to get back in touch with her.  If it wasn’t for the show, I might have never seen her again.” Mentioning Maz instantly reminded Rey about everything she had learned about the man standing in front of her, but she tucked it away safely on a high shelf in the back of her mind.  She wanted to mend the rift between them, not make it bigger.

Kylo finally stopped messing with his papers, the tension melting from his stance a bit.  “That...is good. I’m glad for you,” he said after a beat of silence. His response was stilted, but Rey figured it wasn’t due to indifference on his part, but simply because he wasn’t used to engaging in non-food related conversation.  He seemed to realize it too, because he immediately shifted the conversation back to more familiar territory. “How does she feel about your chosen profession?”

“She was surprised, to say the least, but in a good way.  Maz...was not the best cook in the world, and she knew it.  She probably figured that she’d scared me away from cooking forever.  But she tried. She tried so hard. And when you’re a kid whose living arrangements can change from one day to the next with no warning, living with someone who makes sure you’re taken care of to the best of their abilities makes all the difference in the world.  Even if her meatloaf had the texture of charcoal and was still cold on the inside.” She laughed softly to herself. “There was one dish she used to make for special occasions that always turned out wonderful. It was this kind of casserole she invented, where she would bake chicken breasts smothered in Campbell’s golden mushroom soup mixed with white wine and covered in cheddar and Monterey jack cheese, then served over white rice.  We always ate so much of it we couldn’t move after.” The memory of the thick, warm concoction, full of tender chicken and mushrooms and gooey cheese and cut with the acidic bite of the wine settled deep in Rey’s belly, making her suddenly long for its simple flavors and the comfort it brought.

“That sounds absolutely revolting.”

The warmth inside Rey instantly turned cold and congealed.  “I’m sorry?”

“Be honest with yourself, Rey,” Kylo said, his voice as cold and flat as stainless steel.  “Does that really sound any kind of appetizing, knowing what you do about food and how to cook it?  Is that something you think you’ll be able to put on the menu at BB8 or another other restaurant of caliber?  There comes a time in every chef’s career when they must cast aside their nostalgic memories of whatever their parents threw together and called it ‘dinner’ because they never learned how to cook a proper meal, or else you’ll never succeed.”

Rey gaped at Kylo for a full thirty seconds as her brain struggle to process what he just said.  Then she slowly closed it, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “You will  _ not _ ,” Rey said, each word trembling with barely-contained emotion, “insult low-income families in front of me, Kylo Ren.  I’m sure it’s easy to forget when living in a multi-million dollar apartment, but the vast majority of people living in this country are barely able to make ends meet as it is, much less have the time and resources to make a meal that meets  _ your _ standards.”

“Of course I don’t expect everyone to meet my standards.  The real problem is that they have no standards at all,” Kylo snapped.  “The United States has the weakest food culture in the world, and it’s all thanks to our revolting food chain industry.  Americans have been conditioned to believe that the bastardizations served at places like Olive Garden and Red Lobster are fine dining, and are too distracted by the bloated portion sizes and quirky promotions to pay any mind to their bland food that’s merely edible at best.”

“You’re not being fair,” Rey shot back, bristling like a cat.  “ _ You _ might have grown up with the privilege of eating authentic cuisine at the source, but for the majority of Americans a restaurant like the Olive Garden is the closest they’ll ever get to visiting Italy!  Furthermore,” she added sharply before he could get a word in, “It’s just not the food people go there for. Places like the Olive Garden, Red Lobster and Outback Steakhouse are the only fine dining a lot of can afford, so going there is saved for special occasions.  Birthdays. Graduations. Anniversaries. You don’t have to like their food, but you can’t shit on the people who go there because it has some special meaning to them!”

Kylo glowered at her, and suddenly every rumor, every bit of gossip Rey ever heard about him from the kitchens of the Village flashed through her mind in an instant.  For the first time since she first saw Kylo from BB8’s kitchen, she was ready to believe every one of them. “Your ignorance can be forgiven for inexperience, but if you want to make it in this industry, Rey Jakken, you need to first throw away your pension for the mediocre.  If you want to cling to the wholesome and the heart-warming, then by all means, waste your potential by cooking for the Cracker Barrel or Ihop for the rest of your life. If that is the case, you certainly have no place cooking in a renowned restaurant, and you’re only wasting my time.”

His blistering words scalded the air between them, but the long years she spent in the system and under Unkar Plutt’s roof had tempered Rey like iron, and she endured them without blinking.  When she at last spoke, even the tremor in her voice was gone.

“Maybe you’re right.  Because if that what it means to be a gourmet chef, then I want nothing to do with it.”

With her chin up and eyes dry, Rey marched past Kylo to his front door.  He did not so much as glance up at her, but rather kept his hands planted flat on the surface of his dining table, every line of tension in his shoulders and back visible through his shirt, his head bowed low.

Rey did not know if it was the fresh wave of anger at his show of self-pity that compelled her to delivered the finishing blow or the knowledge that she had nothing left to lose, but in the end it didn’t really matter, did it?  “At least I didn’t forget where I came from and what I had to do to get here. That’s more than you can say for yourself, Ben Solo.”

Kylo’s head snapped up so fast that Rey swore she heard the bones in his neck crack.  For the first time that night, Rey felt her resolve slip. So many emotions ran across his face and eyes that she did not know where to start to decipher them all, and she did not know if she was supposed to be afraid of him or apologize.  He looked like a cornered predator that has to choose between chewing off its own leg to escape, or rust its threat head-on. Rey walked out of the apartment before he had a chance to reach that decision.

She made her way to the elevator without stopping once, ears straining over the ringing inside her head for any sounds of pursuit.  But none ever came, and as the elevator doors slid shut Rey saw the hallway leading to Kylo’s apartment was just as empty and silent as it was when she arrived.  It was only when the elevator began its descent that she let her pretense drop, shoulders slumping and head falling into her hands. The years of watching out for her own skin and enduring one hardship after another may have toughened her outer armor, but inside she felt as though something had shattered, her heart pumping the glass-sharp shards to every part of her body.

Stupid.  She was so  _ fucking _ stupid.  What had she been thinking?  That she had a connection with one of the most influential chefs of the twenty-first century?  That there was a chance he had feelings for her: a nobody from nowhere? But what hurt the most was the realization that she had been wrong about him the entire time.  Kylo Ren was exactly what everyone said he was; a pretentious, heartless asshole.

Maybe what happened tonight was really a blessing in disguise.  If becoming the chef Kylo envisioned for her meant throwing away a part of herself, she wanted nothing to do with it.  True, growing up in the system was hardly a bowl of cherries, and if she was ever presented with the opportunity the strike the memories of Plutt from her mind she would do it in a heartbeat.  But to denounce her childhood completely, cast away the good with the bad? It felt like a betrayal to the person she had grown up to become.

When Rey turned ten, Maz took her to the Olive Garden to celebrate.  When she first told her where they were going, Rey almost didn’t believe her.  The closest one to where they lived was over an hour’s drive away, and since it was only the kids with the better-off families at her school who talked about eating there, she always assumed it was out of range of what Maz usually spent on food.  But on the afternoon of her birthday, Rey found herself in the front seat of Maz’s old, beaten up Toyota, wearing her nicest blouse as they made the seventy-mile drive to the largest town in the county, which boasted other restaurants such as Chile’s, Chipotle and Buffalo Wild Wings.  Rey could still clearly remember the golden glow of the late afternoon sun on the Olive Garden’s river rock facade, the elegance of the Old World decor, and the painted murals of the Tuscan countryside. She also remembered balking at the prices on the menu and the accompanying feeling of guilt from how much Maz was going to be spending on her.

“You only turn ten once, kiddo,” Maz had said with a dismissive wave of her hand.  “There’s no shame in splurging on good food every once in a while. Life’s tough enough as it is; you’d be doing yourself a disservice denying yourself the occasional indulgence.”

Rey still didn’t feel right with Maz paying so much for a single meal, but the old woman was trying to make her birthday special, and the last thing Rey wanted to do was hurt Maz’s feelings by seeming ungrateful.  Rey ended up choosing the lasagna - something a bit more exciting than spaghetti and meatballs, but still familiar - and a cherry Italian cream soda.

Rey couldn’t remember much about the lasagna itself other than it was absolutely massive and that it probably tasted good.  What she did remember is how fancy she felt when the waiter sprinkled freshly grated Parmesan cheese over her dinner, when she and Maz had a race to see who could eat a bread stick faster, and when three cute teenage waiters sang “happy birthday” to her in Italian.  Most of all, it was the first time Rey remembered admitting to herself that she loved the quirky old woman.

It was the first time she felt like she was part of a family.

Something cold alighted on Rey’s cheek, bringing her out of her reverie.  She was outside of Walker Tower and back on the street without realizing it, the first snowflakes of the year drifting peacefully down around her.  Rey looked back up at the Tower to where she thought Kylo’s apartment was, but there was only darkness.

Wrapping her jacket tightly around herself, Rey started the long walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said via Tumblr that I was aiming for an earlier update since this chapter got off to a fast start. Then things went downhill really, really fast.
> 
> June was not a fun month for me. While nothing bad happened to me directly, there was enough going on around me that my anxiety and stress was off the scale. The hardest blow came on June 8, when I woke up to the news that Anthony Bourdain had committed suicide in France.
> 
> Mr. Bourdain was probably the closest thing I ever had to an idol. For the past twelve or thirteen years, I watched all his shows and read all his books like a religion. Although I always wanted to travel and see different parts of the world, he made me want to see the world as he did: as a traveler, not a tourist. He made me want to eat adventurously and not be so afraid of the unknown. He is also the reason why I became interested in cooking and experimenting with food in the first place. I watched _No Reservations_ long before I ever watched my first episode of _Iron Chef America_. Without sounding too dramatic, had it not been for him, this fic probably would not exist. When I read about his death, I sat in bed and cried for twenty minutes. His work had such a monumental impact on my life, and that morning I felt like I lost a piece of myself. It took me a solid two weeks to even want to attempt to continue on with this story, and even longer to get back in the habit of writing a little bit each day.
> 
> The dinner that Maz makes for Rey is actually something my grandma invented, and then my dad made after her and passed down to me. Like Rey, it's one of my favorite meals from my childhood, and is the perfect cold weather meal. I'll post the recipe on my Tumblr sometime (again, "sometime" being a relevant term).
> 
> I don't write angst very often, so I hope the conflict between Rey and Kylo was decent. It definitely was a challenge for me to write.


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